Tigger's Perfect Valentine

This is a sweet little story that I wrote for Valentine's Day. Enjoy.

****

Frigid rain falls steadily from a leaden sky as the train pulls into Union Station in Portland. Even the dreary weather cannot keep Tigger from bouncing up and down on the edge of his seat. It's a habit he's had all his life. As a child his mother teased him that he was bouncier than a rubber ball. His liveliness had earned him his nickname.

You should have grown out of this by now, he chides himself. You're an adult. You should be able to sit calmly. But his heart is racing, his palms are wet, and his stomach has tied itself into a Celtic knot. He has more nervous energy than can possibly be contained by sitting still.

He searches the platform eagerly for a glimpse of Harold, although he knows that the only people on the platform are Amtrak employees. He's looking forward to spending the long January weekend catching up with his friend who he hasn't seen since school started in September.

As the train glides to a smooth stop, the other passengers queue at the door, waiting for it to open. Tigger reaches for his suitcase in the overhead bin. Grabbing the handle, he yanks, but the suitcase is a tight fit for the space and doesn't budge. Suppressing his frustration, Tigger steps up onto the seat to get a better angle on the stubborn luggage and, with a little struggle, manhandles the case down onto the floor. He glances up to see if anyone has seen him climbing on the furniture, but the door is open now and the other passengers are too intent on exiting the train to notice.

He hurries after them, smiling at the official who's helping passengers down the steps, but ignoring his helping hand. Once on the platform he pauses to extend the handle on his rolling case. Out of habit he shakes his pale blond bangs out of his eyes and pushes his glasses back onto the bridge of his too-small nose. He glances down at his crotch to make sure his dick is behaving. That too is habit. He's wearing chinos with pleats in the front to hide his erection, in case he gets one—which is likely. Ever since he was thirteen he's had an embarrassing problem: he has no control over when and where his cock will decide to stiffen to its full, thick, just-shy-of-eight-inch glory. Tigger's cock, when hard, is difficult to hide on his small frame and he lives in dread of his next humiliating incident. He wonders if he will ever get to a stage in life where a hint of gorgeous man won't instantly cause his blood to run south and whether he'll be disappointed when that happens.

By the time he makes his way inside the station, his heart is lodged securely in his throat, hammering away like a woodpecker. Relax! It's just Harold, he scolds himself. Just Harold, one of his friends from high school. Just Harold, the friend he's had a crush on since forever—well, since the first day of seventh grade when the other boy had graced him with his brilliant smile and taken a seat next to him on the school bus.

Then Harold's there, smiling that same smile—the one that lights up his whole face. Harold's blue eyes are twinkling as he pushes his way toward Tigger. He's all lean and angular; his hands are slender, his cheekbones sharply cut. His spiky black hair is longer on one side than the other, and his bangs are bright blue.

"Hey, Tig." Harold sticks his fist up for a bump.

Tigger, who had been about to drag Harold into a hug, hastily readjusts and meets his fist with a firm tap. "Hey, Harold, you look fantastic." Oh shit! Is that a gay thing to say? He recovers by adding, "I think you've gotten even taller, and your hair is unreal!"

Harold grins. "You like it? My roommate's calling me 'emo boy' now. I'm not sure how much I like that music, but I do like the style."

"Yeah, it looks good on you." Harold's skin was pale, his lips full, and his nose just a bit long. His eyes are too full of merriment to carry off the sulky look that most emo boys have though. Tigger notices the tunnel plugs in his ears—those were new. Harold had gotten his eyebrow and lip pierced at the end of their senior year of high school.

"You're going all the way, huh?" Tigger asks, touching his ear lightly.

"Only with you, babe." Harold's grin widens.

Tigger feels his cheeks grow hot. He can't mean that. He's not gay. He's just teasing me. That thought does not stop the flames from spreading like wildfire across his face.

"We'll need to catch the light-rail outside," Harold says, not seeming to notice Tigger's blush as he leads the way to the door.

****

"Looks like Steve's in the shower." Harold flops down on his bed in the small dorm room. "I hope he hurries—I gotta piss."

Tigger parks his suitcase at the foot of Harold's narrow bed and takes a seat at the desk on Harold's side of the room. "So how do you like Portland State?"

"It's good. I like Portland a lot. I can get around almost everywhere with my bike or their light-rail system. School's not going so well. My teacher for freshman English is an uptight bitch. Man, I hate that class."

"How about your other classes?"

"There's way too much fuckin' reading for History—I mean, who cares about all that shit that happened a couple hundred years ago?"

Tigger doesn't say anything. He likes History.

"And my math class—I don't know. The teacher seems cool, but he's going way too fast. He lost me the first week." Harold shakes his head, a frown darkening his handsome face. "Last semester I barely squeaked by with 'C's. I might have to get a tutor or something." He glances up at Tigger and his gloom drops away like darkness in the face of a blazing sun. He smiles his heart-stopping smile and Tigger melts a little.

"What about you? How's U-dub?"

"It's great," Tigger replies. "I haven't seen much of the city. I've mostly been sticking close to campus." In truth, Tigger had been petrified of going out in the big city. Coming from the small town of Centralia, Seattle is overwhelming. He spends most of his time in his dorm room or at the library with his face in a book. He made all 'A's his first semester.

Suddenly the small room shrinks to half its previous size as the door to the bathroom flies open and a very large, very muscled young man steps into the room.

"Oh thank god!" Harold dashes into the bathroom.

Tigger stares. Harold's roommate is naked except for a towel around his waist. His short blond hair sticks to his head in wet curls that drip onto his shoulders and slide enticingly down his sculpted chest. Thick blond fur covers his torso, forearms, and legs. His abs are the most defined Tigger has seen outside of a magazine spread. Tigger's mouth goes dry.

Steve glances at him. His gray eyes take him in and seem to dismiss him as not worthy of his attention. He turns to his dresser and begins rummaging through his drawers.

Tigger is treated to a view of perfect deltoids and lats. Steve's arms are as big around as his own thighs and look as hard as granite. Tigger almost swallows his tongue when the big man drops the towel on the floor revealing an ass that rivals the hottest model Tigger has ever ogled. Steve bends over to slip on a pair of briefs and Tigger's eyes travel down his lightly furred crack, hoping for a glimpse of his pucker.

Unfortunately, the big blond is efficient and in short order he covers all those wonderful muscles with tight jeans and a T-shirt. As he turns away from the dresser he glances at Tigger again and does a double take.

Tigger has been so lost in the wonder of Mr. Muscle, he hasn't been aware of his body's response. Now, as Steve's eyes zero in on his crotch, he realizes with horror that his painfully hard erection is tenting the front of his pants obscenely. His rampant cock has broken free of the confines of his small briefs, and those pleats that he hoped would conceal a world of sin do nothing to hide him now. As he looks down at himself he notices a wet spot starting to spread right at the tip of his cock.

Shit, shit, shit! Panic fights embarrassment for top billing as he jumps to his feet, moving his hands to hide his shame.

He's too late though. Steve has obviously gotten an eyeful, and as Tigger looks at the big man, he sees fury blaze in his eyes.

"You fuckin' faggot!" Steve screams.

Tigger flies backward as pain explodes across his cheek. His head cracks into something hard and sharp, and he cries out as his body slumps to the floor.

"Pervert!"

A glob of spit lands on Tigger's cheek. He's too terrified to move.

Harold comes tearing out of the bathroom, taking in the scene with one quick look. "What the fuck, Steve?" he roars.

The big man whirls around and comes at Harold so fast that Tigger is sure he's going to hit him too, but instead he gets right up in his face and yells, "Your little faggot friend was perving on me getting dressed. He needs to fuckin' keep his eyes and his fuckin' stiffie to himself. Get him the hell out of here! If I catch him in my room again I'll do more than just punch him."

Harold steps back a pace, his mouth hanging open, eyes wide. He glances over at Tigger and winces. Then his face darkens with rage and he fixes a deadly glare on Steve who has sat down on his bed and is slamming his feet into tennis shoes. Harold starts to say something but his roommate cuts him off by launching to his feet and jamming a finger into Harold's chest.

"You better be happy I walked in on you boffin' that girl, 'cause otherwise you'd be on the floor too! But you need to do a better job of pickin' your friends." He glares at Tigger with such hateful intensity that Tigger's stomach curls into a little ball.

"I hate fuckin' faggots! You better be gone by the time I get back. And don't you get your faggoty germs on any of my stuff." With that, he shoulders an overstuffed backpack and strides out the door, slamming it with a force that shakes the small room.

"Oh god, Tigger!" Harold kneels on the floor in front of him and wipes away the spit with a tissue. Touching his cheek gently where Steve hit him, he whispers, "I'm so sorry. Let me get you some ice for that."

"I'm ... I'm okay." Tigger suddenly feels tears well up in his eyes and he blinks hard to keep them at bay. The throbbing of his face and the sharp pain in back of his head are nothing compared to the knife twisting in his chest. Why do people have to be so hateful? He's been accused of being a faggot before, but never with such hatred. Being spit upon has made him feel unclean. His hand shakes as he reaches up to feel the back of his head where he'd hit it on something—likely the corner of the desk. His fingers come away sticky with blood.

"You're bleeding!" Harold sounds distraught. "Let me see. Lean forward."

Tigger obeys, sucking in deep breaths. He feels dizzy.

"Shit! You're bleeding pretty bad. Maybe we should take you to the clinic."

"No, I'll be okay. Head wounds always bleed a lot." Tigger is amazed at how calm his voice is. He does not want to go into a clinic and explain to someone how he hurt his head. He's pretty sure he has a bruise blooming on his cheek; clearly he's been in a fight. Well, not really much of a fight. I didn't do shit. Steve's twice my size.

"Just help me to the bathroom. I'll run some cold water over it."

"Are you sure? You could have a concussion."

"I don't think so. I didn't hit my head that hard. I didn't lose consciousness or anything."

"Maybe I should call campus security."

"No." Tigger definitely didn't want to talk to a macho security guard about being the victim of a hate crime. "Steve's gone and I'm fine. Just help me up." Tigger sticks out his non-bloody hand and lets Harold pull him to shaky feet.

The bigger man slips his arm around his shoulders to support him as they make their slow way to the bathroom. He's acutely aware of Harold's scent, clean and a little citrusy. The warmth of his arm around his shoulder is comforting and Tigger thinks glumly that if he hadn't been hurt this closeness with Harold would be a dream come true. As things stand now, as soon as his head quits bleeding, he'll be trying to catch a train back up to Seattle. He lets out a heavy sigh.

"Here, can you kneel by the tub?" Harold folds a towel and places it on the floor next to the bathtub. "Take off your sweater and I'll help you rinse off your head. Then we can see how bad it is."

Harold grabs the hem of his sweater. Tigger helps by reaching his arms over his head. The sweater is tossed aside and Tigger's T-shirt comes off next. Tigger looks aghast at the big bloody streak on his white T.

"I'll wash those later," Harold says. "Here, lean in."

Tigger dutifully leans into the bathtub, supporting himself with his hands on the floor of the tub. Harold turns the water on.

"It's going to be cold," he warns, "but I think that's best."

Tigger braces himself and manages not to whimper as Harold urges him under the cold stream. It feels good and he closes his eyes as it washes over his face. After a few minutes his stomach starts to settle. When he peeks, he's pleased to see the water is no longer pink as it swirls down the drain.

After what seems a long time, long enough for Tigger to start shivering, Harold turns off the water and he feels the other man's gentle hands in his hair.

"The bleeding has almost stopped. It doesn't look too bad. How do you feel?"

"C ... cold."

"Come here." Harold moves from his knees to a sitting position on the rug in the bathroom, his legs splayed out in front of him. With firm hands around Tigger's waist, he urges him backward to sit between his long limbs. A towel drops over Tigger's head. He grabs a corner of it to wipe off his face. Harold pulls him into the shelter of his warm arms. His body trembles and he's horrified when a small whimper comes out of his mouth.

"Shhhh, shhhh, it's okay Tig," Harold sooths. "Let me warm you up."

Tigger blinks against the tears that threaten to flow again. It feels so good to be in Harold's arms, having him comfort away his pain, but Tigger knows it won't last. His traitorous dick has ruined everything and now it's time to go home. He lets himself relax back into Harold for a minute first though.

"How are you feeling?" Harold's tone is full of concern.

"Okay, I guess. My head hurts. My face hurts too."

"Once you're warmed up a bit, I'll get you some ice."

They sit there for a few minutes in silence, and Tigger becomes aware of Harold's warmth against his spine, his strong legs resting against the outside of his own. Harold runs a hand rhythmically across his collarbone and upper arm. As his trembling finally ceases he becomes aware of something else, something hard and blunt and—oh fuck!—gloriously erotic, pushing up against his ass. He stops breathing for a second as it registers that Harold has a hard-on. Panic flashes through him and he closes his eyes tightly.

Harold shifts slightly and the head of his cock rubs against the base of Tigger's spine. Tigger bites back a moan and forces himself to resume breathing on a regular cadence.

"So, are you?" Harold asks, his voice low and rough.

Tigger shudders at the sexiness in Harold's voice and the bigger man wraps his arms even tighter around him, resting his chin on Tigger's shoulder. Tigger suddenly realizes that Harold asked him a question.

"What?"

"Are you gay?"

Tigger freezes. Harold's hard cock is clearly evident and his own is just as hard, now thankfully hidden by the towel he's dropped into his lap. He'd decided not to be in the closet. He had even admitted he was gay to his mother when she'd asked, and his sister had known for some time. But no one else had asked him. A few, like Steve, had accused him, but no one had asked him outright before. He hadn't come out to his friends yet.

He takes a shuddering breath. If Harold is asking, he must suspect, and if he suspects and is still holding me like this, then he's not going to suddenly beat me up, Tigger reasons.

"Yes, I ... I think so." Tigger's voice is a whisper.

"You think so?" Harold's tone is teasing. "You don't know?"

"Well, I've never ... but, yeah, I ... I like guys."

Harold chuckles and shifts, not loosening his hold on Tigger. Tigger feels that delicious hardness pressing against him.

"Are you?" Tigger asked softly.

"No," Harold answers immediately. He lets go of Tigger and eases back, but then Tigger feels fingers in his hair.

"It looks like it's stopped bleeding," Harold says.

Tigger climbs abruptly to his feet. "Let me change my clothes and I'll be out of your hair."

"What are you talking about? You're staying the weekend."

Tigger keeps his back to Harold, aware that his cock is still swollen; however, it's rapidly retreating in the face of Harold's denial.

"I think it's best if I go."

Harold puts a hand on his arm and pulls him around so they are face to face. His eyes travel down and take in the slight bulge in Tigger's pants. The wet spot he'd made earlier while watching Steve is still visible.

Harold smirks. "You're still having trouble with your dick, huh? You were that way all through high school too. I never saw anyone get hard so quick as you."

Tigger feels color climbing his cheeks. He nods miserably. "You'd think I was still fourteen the way my dick behaves."

"Maybe it's just cause you're not getting any. You need to find a boyfriend to keep to you satisfied." Harold smiles at him warmly and Tigger feels a wave of relief. He and Harold can apparently still be friends.

"I'm sorry I perved on your roommate," he says. "He was fuckin' perve-worthy but I should have had more discretion."

"He's an ass, but a gorgeous ass," Harold agrees.

Tigger goes into the dorm room and picks up his suitcase, laying it out on Harold's bed.

"What are you doing?" Harold asks, following him.

"Changing my clothes." Isn't that what I just said?

"Why? I mean, you're not going home already are you?"

"I was."

"Please stay. I'm sorry my roommate hurt you, but he's gone for the whole weekend now. I ... I've been looking forward to hanging out with you. I don't want you to go."

Tigger looks up at Harold. The taller man is looking at him with what could only be described as puppy-dog eyes. Aw hell! I have no defense against that!

"But ... but I'm gay." Tigger looks down at his feet as he says this. He doesn't want to see disgust or disapproval in Harold's eyes.

"And I care because...?"

"Well, you're not."

"Are you planning to rape me?"

Tigger's head whips up to look at him, shocked at this suggestion. "Of course not!"

Harold laughs. "Then why do you feel you have to go? I don't even care if you get hard now and again. You were perving on me all through high school and we're still friends."

"I ... I was...?" Tigger sputters. He can tell his face is bright red, but Harold is smiling at him in a kind of flirting, teasing way. Should I admit I have a crush on him? No, better not. Tigger begins rummaging through his suitcase.

Harold comes up close behind him, his crotch once again in the small of Tigger's back, although this time Tigger doesn't detect a hard cock. He reaches around Tigger and stills his hands. "You don't have to go." Harold's voice is low, and his warm breath tickles the back of Tigger's neck. "I don't want you to go."

Tigger can smell Harold's citrusy scent, and he suppresses a shiver of desire. His damn dick is starting to twitch again. "I still need to change my clothes."

"No you don't." Harold steps away from him and grabs a robe off a hook on the back of the door. "Here, take your pants off and put this on." He holds it out for Tigger to slide his arms into.

The robe looks soft and warm, and although Tigger isn't sure he wants to wear it, his body has responded automatically to Harold's commanding tone. Before he knows it, Harold has slipped the robe over his shoulders. He smells Harold on it and he sighs with contentment as the bigger man massages his neck.