Noam stopped talking.
Dara arched up to kiss his chest, and Noam pushed the last button free on his fly. He tugged Dara’s trousers down, then off, and smoothed his hands over Dara’s skin. He kissed the inside of Dara’s knee, the dusky bruises on his thigh where some other lover held him a little too hard—Dara shivered when Noam did that—his hip bone, the flat plane beneath his navel. Dara was warm, still rain-damp, and smelled like bourbon and boy.
“Just fuckingdoit,” Dara gasped, and it was the first time Noam had ever heard Dara say the wordfuck, and he didn’t have it in him to disobey.
Afterward, Dara kissed him openmouthed and hot and messy, grasping at Noam with both hands like he’d die if he didn’t have more—more of that, of Noam.
And as it turned out, Dara’s mouth was good at more than just talking.
Later, when their hair was nearly dry, they lay tangled up in the narrow twin bed, Noam’s fingers laced into Dara’s curls. Dara tracked a trail of languid kisses along Noam’s sternum.
Noam had been with boys before, but Dara was definitely the most experienced. A part of Noam felt awkward in comparison, like a child pretending to be grown up.
“Don’t,” Dara murmured and bit him just beneath the collarbone.
“Don’t what?”
“You’re overthinking things,” Dara said. He lifted his head, propping his chin against Noam’s chest. “I can tell.”
Noam made a face at him, but there was no point denying it. Dara’s forefinger traced little patterns on his skin, as if oblivious to the way that made Noam’s heart stumble.
“All right. I won’t overthink things.” He skimmed his hand down Dara’s side instead, again incredulous that Dara’s skin could be so smooth. “You have been with a lot more people than I have, though.”
“So?”
“So...” Noam turned the words over on his tongue, not sure how to phrase this. They felt unwieldy, like holding stones in his mouth. He looked at Dara and bit the inside of his lip until it hurt. “I know this doesn’t mean we’re together. I know you’re not really a relationship person.”
Dara’s mouth flattened. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“I just mean... I mean, you like to... I don’t know, Dara. It’s pretty clear you’re not into relationships. That’s all.”
But Dara had already pushed himself upright, twisting one hand in the bedsheets.
“I can fuck whomever I want.”
“Of course you can,” Noam said, baffled. “I’m not saying you can’t.”
He ignored the part of himself that felt like it was withering just saying so, hearing Dara talk aboutwantingto fuck other people—it wasn’t like Noam thought he and Dara were, would be...
Dara wasn’t a monogamous person, maybe, which was fine. But.
“I can’t not say something, Dara. I’m sorry. But you have bruises on your leg, and on your ribs, and here...” He reached for Dara’s arm, to brush fingertips against the yellowing marks just above the elbow, the ones Noam hadn’t noticed until Dara had his head down between Noam’s thighs.
Dara jerked his arm out of reach.
Noam put his hand back on his own knee, safe. “I’m not going to be a shitty friend and pretend not to notice.”
“Maybe you’d rather whisper sweet nothings in someone’s ear and have boring, predictable sex, but not all of us aspire to such bland heights.”
Wait. Did Dara think Noam was boring?
Noam bit the inside of his lip, suddenly adrift in an uneasy sea. He didn’t know how to respond to that. “Okay. So someone gave you those bruises during sex?”
Dara’s cheeks flushed darker than Noam had ever seen them before. For a moment Noam was so sure Dara was going to—hit him? Curse at him?Something.But Dara swung his legs off the edge of the bed and grabbed for his trousers instead, movements jerky and inhuman.
Noam sat up, abruptly conscious of his own nakedness. “Dara.Please just talk to me.”
Dara rounded on him again with flashing eyes and his shirt gripped between both hands. “Idotalk to you. I talk to you all the time, Álvaro, but you never listen.”
