The Fit of the Stretch
originally published in Queer Hearts, eds. Gary Dunne & Laurin McKinnon, gay-ebooks-australia, December 2007
(download the full anthology for free here)
Sam stares at the television. Five hundred channels and nothing to watch, and he hates that; he knows it's a cliché, and that makes him hate it even more. He clicks it off, sets the remote control down on the arm of the sofa, and continues to stare at the television. Forlornly, he rests his head against the sofa’s arm. The top of his head bumps the remote, which brushes back and forth once against his hair before it clatters to the floor and skitters across the floorboards. Sam raises his head to regard it. He reaches for it, but even stretching, it's too far away.
A knock at the door interrupts his meditation on the inadequacy of his mutant powers, the stubborn refusal of the cosmos to bring the remote to him through the force of his own mind and desire.
Sam glances at the door. Stares at it a moment.
Perversely, the door declines his invitation to open.
With a sigh, Sam swings his sock-shod feet onto the floor, wraps the comforter around him as he stands, and pads over to the door. He closes one eye, puts the other to the peephole, and finds himself winking behind the closed door at Aidan.
Winking, actually, at Aidan's eye. Which is flush up against the peephole from the other side. Too close to see, almost; Sam knows more than sees that it’s Aidan.
He undoes the chain, slides back the deadbolt with an audible click, turns the knob to crack the door open, and pads back to the sofa. He curls up and looks at something better than television:
Aidan is standing in the doorway, halogen lighting melting into the sheen of sweat on his torso, making him sort of glow.
Sam's gaze travels up Aidan's body to his face, lingering on the gentle curve of lips, flickering up to be caught and held in Aidan's eyes.
"Saw your light on," Aidan says at last. "Thought I'd drop in."
"Yeah," Sam says, and wonders why he said anything at all, and can't think what else to say.
Aidan doesn't say anything, either. He runs his hand through his hair, shaping and reshaping the damp curls absently; Sam follows his hand as it drops down to rest on his waistband, thumb hooking inside, dragging it down a little more, the curled lizard on his hip almost fully revealed.
Aidan is glowing so much, it is almost obscene.
Sam would like to make Aidan's glow completely obscene.
His eyes move back to Aidan's, and he still doesn't know what to say.
Aidan still doesn't know what to say, either. But he doesn't need words as he kicks off his sandals to come barefoot across the bare floorboards to Sam.
Sam tucks up his feet, knees bent, arms wrapped around them, to make room on the sofa for Aidan.
Aidan looks at the empty space that Sam has just made for him on the sofa. Then he looks at Sam.
Sam's caught in Aidan again, in Aidan's smile and Aidan's eyes, and Aidan's hands, unwrapping the blanket. Aidan's hands adjusting the curve of Sam's body, not straightening him but shifting him, so that Aidan can fit with Sam on the sofa.
Aidan wraps the blanket around them, wraps himself around Sam. Aidan's foot nudges under the bottom hem of Sam's jeans. Aidan's toes slide up over Sam's socks, try to hook inside them like Aidan's thumb in Aidan's jeans.
Sam closes his eyes, pretends that Aidan's toe is Aidan's thumb, and Sam's sock is Aidan's jeans, and does that make Sam's foot Aidan's cock? Sam isn't sure, but it makes him laugh a little.
"Does that tickle?" Aidan asks, his breath warm against Sam's ear.
Sam isn't sure whether Aidan wants it to tickle or not; he steels himself for a tickle fight as he answers, "No. . ."
Aidan's breath is still warm against Sam's ear; Aidan's breathing without speaking, and his toe worms under the elastic of Sam's sock, hooks in and pulls down. Aidan's foot loses its hold a couple of times, slips out and Aidan grunts softly each time, hooks in again. Keeps at it until he's worked Sam's sock down to his ankle, all of Aidan's toes hooked in now to pull Sam's sock over his heel.
Sam's toes wiggle when Aidan's set them free.
Aidan's toes skim over Sam's foot, the callus on the underside of his big toe abrading pleasantly; Sam is on the edge of a purr when Aidan's toes touch his, nudge and wedge between them, fitting their toes together.
It's not a perfect fit. Aidan's feet are bigger, and he's stretching Sam.
But the imperfection, the stretch, the fullness of it all makes Sam purr.
It's Aidan's turn to laugh a little now: he laughs, and licks his laughter onto Sam's purr, caressing Sam's throat with his tongue.
Sam tilts his head back, lets Aidan's tongue elicit more purrs until Sam is moaning, wiggling his toes with and against Aidan's, hooking his fingers into Aidan's waistband like his fingers are Aidan's toes and Aidan's jeans are Sam's sock, and Aidan's cock is something that may not fit perfectly, but it's the imperfection and the stretch and the fullness that Sam wants.
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