Hide and Seek

April Fools Day Story Contest 2023

*

My underwear drawer is empty.

This is an escalation. Brandon and I only move each other's keys, laptops, junk. I once moved his car from its assigned space to the visitor lot around the corner and he called the police. He hides my cans of tuna whenever I buy any - behind the TV, under the couch, in the trunk of my car by the spare tire. I found one taped to the back of my printer one time. I doubt I've found them all; maybe one day, when I'm married with six kids and a bigger gut than I've got now, I'll find an ancient can of tuna in the glove compartment. Maybe my kid'll find it. I'll post a picture of it in the group chat -- will we still have a group chat by then? -- and Brandon, wherever he is, will laugh-react. Maybe I'll reply with a picture of his Bluetooth speaker; I took it right after we moved in together. (He never found it; I don't know if he even suspects I took it.) Brandon will flood the chat with emojis and gifs. The others might know it's related to our stupid little game, but they won't know all of it, won't feel time collapse or be transported to that shitty carriage house on Sixteenth Street, Brandon singing along with the radio in the shower, not well but not badly, me in the living room, slipping the speaker out of its case and into my pocket. But Brandon will. All at once what happened -- what must have happened - will dawn on him. He'll be proud of me.

The drawer hangs open like a toothless mouth.

We don't go into each other's bedrooms. At least I've never fucked around in his bedroom; he could have been coming into mine for the whole time we've lived together and I'd be none the wiser. I try to imagine him in here, touching my game controllers, my shoes. The curtains? Clothes. The bed.

I shut the drawer.

Me: My swim trunks were in there too

Me: What the fuck am I supposed to wear

Me: I'm already late

The bubble telling me he's typing appears, and I stand in front of my dresser, naked as anything. It feels like I'm racing toward a yellow that'll turn red before I reach the intersection, except I'm not usually hard when that happens.

Brandon: Look around

The typing bubble appears again, then disappears. Appears. Disappears.

Stays gone.

Nothing's been touched, or else has only been touched by me. The other drawers don't reveal anything, and the bed's the same as it always is. I'm ready to text him again when I spot my miniature piggy bank. It's about a foot too far to the left on top of my shelf.

I turn it over in my hands, shaking it, but I can't hear anything inside. I've never even used it for coins; I only bought it to support the local frisbee team. I pull the plug on its belly, reach in with my fingers and feel cloth. Cotton, maybe? I yank it out.

Underwear. Not mine.

Briefs.

They're clean but not new; stretched and a little worn with a fading print I can't make out. When had he put these in here? I think about what he might have done with these before he washed them, running my fingers over the stitching. Will they even fit me? And he probably has some plan to see me in them -- barging in when he knows I'm changing, maybe. Daring me to streak across the lawn with no pants on when he knows I'm wearing these --

This is what he wants. He knew I'd end up here, with my dick in one hand and his underwear in the other. How long had he waited for me to find these? Months? Maybe that was why he'd cleared out my drawer -- I was taking too long, and he was tired of waiting. Tired of watching me, wanting me, of keeping his hands off me. Of using his hands on himself. Maybe he has pictures of me. We've gone swimming a lot this summer, and the local pools have communal showers. I wasn't paying attention, had no reason to, but now I can imagine his eyes raking over me, taking notes. Making memories.

I take my hand off my cock. Try to ignore the throbbing.

I'm not exactly surprised. Neither of us is flying any rainbow flags, but Brandon's never been shy about bringing the occasional gentleman home, and I...well, most of my experience is with women, or guys I meet someplace dark and follow someplace darker. I've never brought anybody home where Brandon could see them. It felt wrong. Not that we've never fooled around; there was always the caution tape of genuine friendship between us. I haven't even really thought about it, make it a point not to think about it. But I've wanted to think about it -- about his intense physicality, the gracelessness of his movements, the tightness of his calves, the dark hair on the back of his fingers. His eyelashes. Lips. It's all pooled and aching between my legs now, and there's no way it's going away on its own. Not this time.

*

The party is at my dad's house.

It's a barbeque and he invites everyone he knows. It's especially important to him since the divorce; every year he throws one to celebrate his freedom. That's what he says, anyway. I think he's just lonely. His freedom was thrust upon him by a woman who was tired of a marriage that took place mostly over a wireless network.

He got the house in the split, something he never lets anyone forget. It's a big ranch style place, with three acres of lawn he takes great pride in mowing now that my mom lives in a condo downtown. Must be miserable in such as small space, he often says. Hopes. Imagine throwing all this away for a place like that.

She moved out when I was away at college. I'd avoided going home until I graduated, when I'd had no money and no choice, and my dad glommed onto me like a barnacle, asking me way too many questions and patting me on the shoulder like a peewee baseball coach. We hardly know each other.

"Hey, kid." He pulls me into an embrace; I don't resist. "Long time no see."

"Oh, you know." I shrug. "Work and stuff."

"Yeah, yeah." His tone is flat. He flips over a few burgers with the tongs. "Busy man."

"Did I see Aunt Sarah back there? Is she in from Seattle?"

He brightens. "Yeah, she landed yesterday. We went sailing, you know she loves that. Got a nasty sunburn."

He got the boat in the divorce, too.

"Is Brandon around?"

He smirks and nods his head in the direction of the yard. "He's back there somewhere."

The barbeque shelter was set away from the backyard on the side of the house, so it takes me a few moments to get into the backyard proper. I'd heard voices coming in, but I'm still surprised by the number of people that have turned out. The whole neighborhood is here, along with a dozen of my dad's friends from work, laid about in lawn chairs or standing around with beers. Some of my buddies from the construction site made it out, and they're in a big cluster with a few of Brandon's friends around some umbrella tables on the pool deck. Brandon isn't with them. I say hey and keep walking, wandering around the yard, the shed, the side of the house until I find him on the side porch near the garage. He's straddling a chair, shirtless, his arms folded atop the back. He's laughs when he sees me, a big ugly sound that should embarrass him. He's been waiting for me.

I've always envied his easy manner. Not that he's some kind of king of cool; he's as lumbering as they come. Couldn't catch a ball if his life depended on it. Trips over his own feet. But he doesn't care, just tumbles along like the world belongs to him, like it'll get out of his way or he'll crash into it at full speed, and he doesn't care which. He's boisterous and unguarded, and if it wasn't for our game I'd think he was incapable of guile. But the drawer tells me that he can be bold in quiet, secret ways, too.

"Everyone's in the pool," he says breezily. There's a beer bottle in his hand. "You want to get in?"

He flashes a dangerous grin that hits me in the gut.

"No." I stretch, let the waistband of my jeans slip down. Not low enough for him to confirm anything, but enough for him to know it wasn't accidental. "Not dressed for it."

He flicks his tongue into the lip of the bottle, then takes a swig. "Not dressed for it, huh?"

I shrug. "Couldn't find what I needed. Had to make do."

"Hmm." His nostrils flare; his voice is full of gravel. "We're a casual bunch, you know." His gaze snaps to my crotch before he catches himself and looks me in the eye again. "Whatever you've got under there is fine."

I'm close to him now, so close I can feel his breath on my stomach. He has to lean his head back to maintain eye contact with me. I'm hard, but my jeans are heavy enough to hide it.

I reach into my pocket and pull out the underwear, placing it in his hand.

The grin slips from his face and he stares at his own hand, dazed.

He drops the bottle and places a hand on my hip. He's careful, like he's afraid I might disappear. Slips his ring finger into one of the belt loops and the index into my waistband, dragging it across my bare skin. I fight to keep my breath even and lean forward a little, so my hips are resting against the back of the chair. He's watches his own hand as it travels up toward my waist, then pulls me toward him and plants a kiss right below my navel.

Breath leaves my body in a rush.

"Scottie..." He still has his face pressed into me, and I can feel his voice better than I can hear it. "Scottie, we -- "

I back away, take his hand, pull him to his feet.

The garage is attached to the house, so we can get inside without anyone seeing us. He's panting behind me like we're running as we make our way through the living room and down the hall. I pause, trying to think of where to go, and he presses himself against my back, hands all over my chest and in my hair. He gropes me like he's hungry, like its his first time, and the idea that he's been lusting after me all this time and I didn't know makes me want to pull him to the floor right where we're standing. My old bedroom is out of the question -- it was turned into a gym years ago -- but the basement door is off to my left. I head for it, moving slower this time so I don't have to break contact with Brandon.

My parents finished the basement when I was a kid, and Brandon and I had spent countless hours down there -- playing video games, doing school projects, pretending to be ninjas. My dad hasn't redecorated it after the divorce like he has the rest of the house, and I freeze once we reach the bottom of the carpeted stairs.

I'd forgotten.

The bookshelves are still full of my old yearbooks, comic books, school books, cookbooks; they're stacked the way young boys stack things, so none of them line up and they're in no order, but I know I could find the third Captain Underpants book from muscle memory alone. The wave of nostalgia has hit Brandon, too, because he's as quiet and still as me.

"Holy shit," he breathes. "Talk about a time capsule."

I walk over to one of the bookshelves and run my hand over the spines of my middle school yearbooks, grinning at the familiar colors. Brandon walks over to the trophy cabinet, small as it is. I walk up behind him and wrap my arms around him, kissing the back of his neck.

"Can't believe you kept it," he says. His voice or hoarse with arousal, or maybe with something else. "I almost forgot this."

The only real trophy in the case is his; the only thing I've ever won are participation ribbons.

"Me too," I whisper into his neck. "You were quite the little bowler."

There's a hitch to his laugh. "Scottie..."

"What?"

I try to make him face me, but he won't turn, so I leave him be, running my hands up and down his arms.

"God, I loved you," he says.

"Way back then? You got that in second grade."

He chuckles. "Yeah. Maybe not like I did later, but yeah. I loved you then, too, I think."

"Well, I wouldn't have said it that way," I speak into his shoulder. "But I loved you, too."

He sounds far away. "I used to watch you sleep down here."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. We were older, maybe fourteen the first time. You were obsessed with that fucking dance game."

"Michael Jackson?"

"Yeah," he says. "Michael Jackson."

"I still got that game down here somewhere." I trace a nipple with my finger. "The console, too."

"You were so fucking tired. You'd been dancing for probably three hours. Passed out on that sofa."

It's still behind us.

"We had the bed rolled out, cause I was staying the night again. Didn't even get to say good night before you were dead to the world."

A sharp hiss escapes him as I pinch the nipple I've been playing with.

"I was thinking about drawing a dick on your face," he laughs. "Got the marker in my hand and everything. And I was leaning over you, pushing your hair back and I just...I wanted to..."

He trails off, groaning as I palm him through his swim trunks.

"Is that what you wanted?" The story is sweet as hell, but I can't handle being so close to him in the start I'm in without taking things further. "Is that what you were thinking about?"

He turns and presses my lips to his, shoving his tongue against mine. He's got my ass in one hand and my head in the other, and I stumble backward, almost tripping over something on the floor. He keeps pushing me backward until my calves hit the couch and I drop onto it, sitting in front of him the way he had done me outside.

"Jesus, Scottie -- "

I pull his trunks down. He's got a beautiful cock -- cut, thin, not too long, big head, like he was made for my mouth. His thighs are taut under all that dark hair, and I run my hands over them and his nuts while his cock hovers a few inches from my mouth, glistening at the tip. I moan when I think of how it's all for me, how many times he must have lain beside me stroking it while I was asleep, all the erections he must have hidden behind pillows. It's too much and I reach into my pants, sighing with relief. But Brandon stops me, grabs my wrist and kisses my palm.

"Please," he says. "Please."

His cheeks are beet red but his gaze is steady as he stares down at me through those eyelashes.

My confusion must show on my face because he pulls me to my feet and kisses me, long and deep, before letting me go. And then he starts throwing the pillows from the couch.

"Oh!" I say. "Oh."

It doesn't take long to set up, and were laying side by side before I know it. He's cupping my cheek and running his thumb over my lips; he presses a kiss to my forehead.

"I always imagined you'd wake up and catch me staring at you," he whispers. "And you'd be mad at first, until you saw how hard I was, how much I wanted you. And then you'd be hard too, and we...we would..."

He kisses me again, not so hungrily this time, but sweetly. And his hand moves down my chest, teases me through my jeans. I moan into his mouth and press back against his hand. He fumbles with my zipper; it scrapes roughly against my cock before he can get my fly open and I cry out in pain and nearly come.

"Oh my god." He's panting; his eyes are laser focused on my cock, standing up, framed by my zipper. "Oh, fuck."

"This your favorite part?"

I expect him to at least chuckle, but he tears his gaze away from my dick and looks desperately at me before planting another kiss on me. Then he takes me into his hand.

I don't know what it is -- maybe it's all the foreplay with the drawer, maybe it's how badly he's wanted me all the years -- but I come all over his hand with only a few strokes. The part of me that can still think worries that he'll be disappointed, but he's transfixed and moaning. His own cock is jutting up against his abdomen, the head an inflamed red.

I recover pretty quickly and push him into his back, making my way down his body until my mouth is hovering over his cock again. He spreads his legs and watches as I give him an exploratory swipe of my tongue, and I can tell he's trying not to thrust into my mouth.

"Is this part of it?" I'm caressing his balls; he's grunting with each gentle stroke. "Is this what I do in your dreams?"

He lets out a long, low moan, then slides down off his elbows until he's flat on his back. He can't catch his breath; I'm a little worried he might pass out.

So I lick him again, stroking him just under the head with my thumb, and when I start to feel that familiar twitch, I give his cock one good suck before pumping him hard with my hand, because I want to see it happen, need to see it. And it doesn't disappoint.

The first squirt lands in the hair at the base of his cock, and the sight of it is so obscene that I can feel myself start to stir. He's crying out and I don't let up; more and more come bubbles and squirts out of him until my hand is covered in it, until his cock his slick with it. I swear he's actually crying as I wipe my hand on the sheet between his legs.

"You sure know how to make a mess, don't you?"

His cock twitches at that.

I thought it might.

"God damn right." His breathing is still a little ragged. "Fuck."

I climb back up to where I was and lay beside him, playing with the hair around his nipple again.

"You're quick, too."

"Fuck you. You got no room to talk."

"You'd think it was your first time."

He laughs. "Gimme a fucking break, man, I've been dreaming about fucking you for years."

"Your biggest fantasy: mutual hand jobs in my dad's basement, under your old bowling trophy."

He starts giggling, and it deepens until he's curled toward me with the strength of his laughter.

"Well, when you put it that way."

We lay in the silence for a few minutes.

"What made you decide to do this?"

"Is that a serious question? I just told you I spent my teen years filling tissues thinking about you, and you're really asking me this?"

"I just mean...we've lived together for like twelve years. And you never -- "

"Neither did you."

"Yeah, but I wasn't pining after you like you were me, you know?"

"Thanks, asshole."

"Come on." I tilt his chin up, make him look me in the eyes. "I'm being serious."

He sighs and presses his forehead to mine, looking down at his hands.

"You remember that girl Brenda? We were handing out for a little bit."

I nod.

"She told me what you said."

"What? I barely even saw her."

"She asked you what kind of cake to get me for my birthday. And you told her to get a hostess cake."

Brandon hadn't had it easy at home. He'd run away a dozen times, usually to my house. Once it had been on his birthday; his dad had been drunk and his mom had been missing and...well. You didn't need a mom and dad to have a birthday. You didn't even need presents. You just needed cake. And hostess was the only cake I could get.

"She got a bakery to make a big one." His voice is quiet again. "It had the little white loop on top and everything. I asked her how she knew I'd want that. And when she told me, I..."

He swallows a few times.

"I knew I couldn't stay with her. Not that we were super serious anyway, but..." He shrugs. "I couldn't even look at you without making fucking moon eyes. And you told me your dad was having this party again, and how you couldn't wait to swim in the heated pool, and we were still playing that fucking game, so I thought I'd take all your swim trunks and hide them, and then I was standing over your drawer, and...things just kind of spiraled from there."

I grin at him. "You brought your own underwear into my room to take my swim trunks?"

He laughed again. "Never prank horny."