Little Elephant

+++

I'd been nervous as all fuck coming here tonight, but the best half of a bottle of wine and Nella's delicious food has helped offset it. At least, enough to jabber on at Nella for too long about my latest ideas for some work of my own -- the unpaid sort, but the sort that makes slashing my veins open at the venal altar of advertising worth it. It's as I've spent probably upwards of ten minutes showing her images to illustrate the meaning of 'chiaroscuro' that we break apart, laughing when she reminds us of how we used to do this same exact thing at school.

"We'll never speak the same language, you and me," she says, flipping her hair behind her shoulders then pulling it up into an elastic band she magics from somewhere, presumably completely unaware of what that does to me. "You with all your arty language, and me with my legalese."

"Opposites." I agree, tipping the last of the wine into my mouth and savouring the taste.

"Attract."

I cough.

"Opposites attract," she repeats.

"Has that little elephant just walked back into the room?"

She smiles back, flicking her eyes up to the ceiling and back. "Ben, I just think we should talk about it again. Or something. Do something, before you go away tomorrow for this job, don't you?"

Now I'm wishing I still had more wine left to drink, but I'm going to have to man up without. "Yeah, you're right."

"Help me clear up," she says as she stands and begins to pile plates and bowls together.

I follow her into the kitchen where she puts me to work at the sink while she tidies the leftovers into little plastic boxes. Because Nella is tidy as tidy can be. Even her teenaged bedroom had been freakishly neat, everything lined up and colour-matched.

"Thanks for cooking, it was great," I say, testing the water temperature out of the tap.

She pats my shoulder in passing as she moves around behind me. "I'm glad you liked it. It's one of Freja's."

"How is she?"

"About ready to burst. I pity Gus if the baby doesn't come soon," she adds.

"I bet." I scrub the pans, the water hot and soapy in my hands.

She hums under her breath to the music in the background as she stacks everything back into the cupboards and the fridge. Unexpected thoughts of this being an everyday thing drop into my head with fuck all warning. Perhaps I'd be the one to cook for her, feeding her after a long day in court, to put some colour back into her cheeks on those days when she's so tired she's gone white at the gills.

"What time is your flight tomorrow?"

"One-thirty," I answer, even as my brain continues running along the rails of fantasy, imagining being able to come home to her after the shoot, crawling into the warm bed next to her, waking her up to say hello.

"And you're back -- when?"

"A coupla weeks."

She hums, this time a different, distracted kind of sound. "I'll miss you. Wait, but you'll be back here for Sankta Lucia Day, won't you? Pappa won't know what to do if you can't be there, you know."

"Yeah, I'll be back for that. It's the thirteenth, right?"

"Uh-huh."

And there. We've run out of words. This is the exact reason I should never have let myself think we could be anything other than plain friends. Now I've brought sex into it, it's chased everything else away, and for what? I scrub at the baking tray.

"What did you think about when you went home last night, Ben?"

Oh shit. Didn't see that coming. I stare down into the sink. "Uh -- how honest d'ya want me to be, Nell?" I try for a dose of humour but it comes out sounding flat.

"Honest." She sighs. "Would it help if I told you what I thought about?"

I yank at the plug, swilling the water around as it drains. "What did you think about?"

"About you, and what you said last night. And how it must have taken courage to tell me. Is that why you ghosted me after the photoshoot? Because you didn't want to tell me?"

I turn to face her. "Yeah, I s'pose so."

"C'mon, Ben, don't go all stiff and British on me."

It takes a few seconds. She cracks first, lips twitching before she releases a quiet, frustrated laugh. But when I start to laugh she slaps at my shoulder.

"Hey, you're the one who said it, not me."

"Argh, you know what I meant. Stiff upper lip, not --"

I watch the blush spread like spilt ink across the skin exposed by the v-neck of her shirt, up her neck to her face. And make a decision. That I'm all in, until she tells me otherwise. That we need to risk it, because if we don't, we'll be stuck in this purgatory long enough it might ruin our friendship anyway.

"Hey, come here," and hold out a hand towards her.

She steps closer, until we're in touching distance. I reel her in the last few feet, and she lets me. Another few seconds of quiet pass between us. Her eyes look fantastically blue in the too-bright lights of her kitchen, and they're watching me as closely as I'm watching hers.

"I thought about you and imagined you were ok with what we'd talked about. Then I took a shower, and thought about you some more."

Her laugh is just a short blast of air, but she steps closer, until we're toe to toe. "In the shower?"

"Yeah. In the shower."

"Look at you. I think you're going red."

"Uh, yeah. I'm admitting to wanking over my best friend. To my best friend."

The slide of her hands around my waist blasts bright energy right through my every cell.

"Your best friend?"

"Yeah. And that's what's making me so wary of doing this. I've already said it, Nell, but I'm afraid to lose you if we do this and it doesn't work out."

"Let me ask you something," and her eyes flick up to the ceiling, then back to me.

"Ok?"

"How long have you been thinking this way about me, Ben?"

And, shit, there she is. Nella Bergstrom, the criminal barrister.

"Well, it's not just a recent thing," I answer, hedging in spite of myself.

"Not for me, either."

The words sink in, one at a time. "Is that true?"

She laughs, more loudly this time. "Yes it's true." And then, "You look surprised."

"I am. I didn't think -- I mean --" I shake my head to try to clear it of the stupid riot of confusion in there. "Fuck it, come here."

+++

It's a cliché of my profession that one should never ask a question unless one is already certain of the answer. Asking Ben how long he'd felt this way about me brought all my nerves swimming to the surface, even as I tried to play it down, to give him the chance to answer honestly. And perhaps I already 'knew' the answer because as soon as he gave it, together with the most bashful of his smiles, I felt its truth straightaway. But he still looked shocked when I told him it was mutual, as if he couldn't bring himself to believe it.

"You look surprised," I say, appraising the expression on his face, the way his eyes seem to dilate, the left always so much darker than the right.

I land against his chest as he tugs me the final few inches, appreciating the solid feel of him. He's slim. Not skinny but wiry, his solidity reminding me of his mostly regular habits of swimming and running. Done more for the way he says it clears his mind than for what it does for his body. I splay my fingers out wide, a sort of delight skipping through me that I can allow myself to do this, to feel the slight tremor of him under my touch.

Just as I lift my chin, he drops his and we bump, awkwardly, then he laughs, a short, quiet sort of sound.

"Smooth," he laughs again, tilting his face closer.

His eyes look huge and hungry and very intense. I swallow, because it feels as if we haven't kissed before, that this is the first time. The corner of his mouth kicks up a little.

"You look nervous."

I blink, give a half-hearted shake of my head, because I don't want to be nervous. I want to be graceful and sexy and assured for him, but my stomach is somersaulting like a circus clown. He runs his hands down my arms until he links our fingers together, fidgeting them.

"Look, we don't --"

I clench our hands. "Yes, I'm nervous, but only for good reasons, Ben. Perhaps excited would be a better word."

"And still with the vocabulary."

"You were my best tutor. You never lost patience with --"

The press of his mouth is soft, and at the same time, sure and centred. Tiny flickers of electricity lick at my spine and I press closer. To my frustration, he tips back and away.

"Well," he begins, his gaze sliding down to the floor, "I'm nervous as all fuck," eyes flicking to mine then away, then back, and that rise in his eyebrow. Familiar and not, the motif of the last few weeks, Ben morphing between my friend and then this state, where the press of his body is that of a lover's. "And I think we should take things carefully."

"Ok. But let's at least take them somewhere," and his smile widens as I tug at him until he's walking me backwards toward my couch. I sit, pulling him with me. He disentangles our fingers.

"Wait, Nell," as he sits down next to me and taps his thighs in invitation. "I liked this position for us, didn't you?"

His eyes glitter as he watches me settle onto his lap in a precise copy of that afternoon in front of Joshi's camera. I like how it forces him to tip his head up a little to look at me, how his body stretches and reaches for mine, how I can let myself relax into his hold. And I really like his kisses. The soft, light ones to the corner of my mouth and my temple, and the deep, harder ones into my mouth. His hands begin low, just above my knees, in a conscious or unconscious copy of how we'd sat like this for Joshi, and they stay there for so long I begin to wonder just how slow Ben means to take it. When he finally slides them higher I hum into his mouth.

"Yeah?" lifting his hips under me.

I hum again. "I like how you kiss."

"Yeah?" in a softer voice than before.

I nod and kiss his cheekbone, the tiny points of his eyelashes tickling my lips as he blinks.

"I like how you kiss too."

I feel his smile in the way his cheek lifts against my mouth. And then he's gone, ducking down to the underside of my jaw where he presses short kisses and a tip of tongue to my delighted skin. I tuck my head close to his, wanting every millimetre of connectedness I can get. His body shifts and straightens, and I push my hands low around his back, searching for more of his skin. He shivers when I succeed, his hips lifting again, his grip tightening then releasing and I can't stop his name coming out of my mouth in a whisper.

"Nella," he whispers back, even as he stays focused on making my neck feel like it's burning.

My fingertips find the dip of his spine and I trace it like a cord, revelling in how his body twitches in increasing degrees until it's almost a quake and he gasps hotly, then grunts.

"Sorry."

"S'ok. That's -- it's -- that's a sensitive place," he stumbles.

I do it again. This time, his grunt is louder and I'm filled with an unexpected sense of power. "You like that."

His laugh is short and breathless. He sits back, effectively trapping my hands between him and the couch. "You've found my weak spot already."

"Yes?"

He nods, drops his head back and trains his eyes on me. "Yeah."

I wriggle my fingers again and he squirms underneath me, his eyelids dropping to half-mast.

"You keep doing that and I'll embarrass myself."

"Mm," and although I like the thought of Ben losing it, I like the thought of making this last longer better, so I quiet my hands for now, and watch the slow smile open up his face, marvelling at how well I know his expressions and how unfamiliar the context still feels. I look down at how my thighs are spread wide over his.

"Ok?" he asks softly, a hand sliding slowly up my back, rucking the cotton of my shirt.

"Yes. This feels so nice. But I'm having to remind myself it's you." I chew on my lip, hoping it doesn't sound as lame as it feels to say it aloud.

"Same here. I've thought about this so many times, but it's different in the flesh."

"So to speak."

He shares my flash of humour. Then, "But I'm serious about not rushing this. I want to remember every second of the first time with you. Of all our firsts."

Which is about the most romantic thing a guy's ever said to me. I slump in a not very elegant way, falling into him.

"That's a beautiful thing to say."

He doesn't reply except to stroke the back of my neck and slide his fingers up into my hair. His chest expands then retracts as if to gather momentum to say something. He hesitates and as if I need reminding of how delicate this is, how much jeopardy we're playing with, he seems to hold back on saying anything at all.

"Tell me, Ben. We know each other too well to hold back, don't you think?"

He takes another breath, tightening his hold of my hair. "This isn't just fucking, Nell. It's more than that for me."

"Yes of course," I sit up and search his eyes. "It's much more than that, of course it is."

Is that relief? It's fascinating and maddening to know him so well in so many ways, but not in this way. Not in love. His tentativeness is making me review so much about him -- his quiet confidence, his ability to swing so easily between seriousness and humour, the contrast between his devil-may-care attitude with the times he can be so introspective.

"Good." He strokes a couple of fingers across my forehead, chasing some of my untidy hair into place, following his movement as if to memorise it. "I really love this, here," he says, a fingertip sliding over my hairline where some of the hairs never seem to grow beyond a few millimetres and stick up in an awkward sort of halo. "I love the way these tiny hairs are never tamed."

"You're weird."

"Yeah, I know. But you're so beautiful."

"Shush, you."

He kisses me, then sits back again. "Yeah that's what makes you so beautiful. You don't think you are, you wear it so naturally. And look, now, at how that's making you blush."

I kiss him to shut him up, and this time it has something of the heat and power of his kisses in the alley. Less self-conscious. More ardent. I drown in them, closing my eyes to concentrate on how he feels. I'd almost forgotten how good this can be. I ease closer, widening my legs until we're pressed together, a little restless, both of us in search of some friction.

"Yeah," he presses a big palm to my lower back, rolls his hips to meet mine. "Yeah, come on, Nella."

+++

I can't get enough of her, can't get her close enough. I love her weight on me and urge her on with my hand braced around her back, following the slight rotations of her body over mine. My cock is throbbing like a bastard, but I can be patient. I have to be. I'm not wasting or hurrying a second of this. Neither am I going to run the risk of coming on too heavy with her. No, it's softly, softly, for now. Until we've got used to each other and begun to find out what works for us.

For now, just the feel of her on me is perfect. That, and the light pinking of her cheeks, the tiniest hint of perspiration rising to her temples. Just as it occurs to me that I could do more than just speculate about what kind of bra she's wearing, her fingers start picking at the buttons of my shirt. I sit back because, yeah, being undressed is one of my things and she's hit on it without anything being said. I watch the slight tremble in her arms.

"Take it nice and slowly," I can't help myself from saying, and delight at the deepening pink, the smiley look in her eyes.

And how she takes her time, lengthening the interval between each and every slip of a button, an occasional tap and flick of a fingertip on my skin, my body tightening with the expectation of more. Eventually. Yeah, more. Without thought my hips rise up, seeking more. And more. Patience is hard-won. I exhale, searching for it.

"Ok?" she asks, eyes tinted with amusement now, as if she knows how difficult it is for me to be so passive.

"Yeah, don't worry about me." And aren't I full of bravado?

Which she calls straightaway. Of course she does. One deliberate, intense brush over a nipple, the cool rub of the cotton and the warmth of her fingertip beyond, and it's like the strike of a match. The second time she makes each sensation longer and harder, her smile growing even without looking at me, just knowing the effect she's having. A third even more deliberate time, and I have to press my lips together to stop something bossy coming out from them. The fourth time I decide kissing her is the only outlet, and the fifth time, that's what happens.

She wriggles against me as we kiss and eventually I realise she's still working my shirt open, and the slide of her soft blouse on my skin brings the hair on the back of my neck to perfect attention.

"I didn't know you're so ticklish."

Which means I must have been flinching too. "Yeah."

She kisses my forehead and I can't honestly remember the last time anyone did that and I didn't want to smack them away.

"What?" she asks.

"I'm thinking how good this feels."

"Me too." And, more quietly, "I half expect to start freaking out that it's you, or that you're going to freak and run out on me."

More of her hair has broken free from the elastic band and drifted down to her neck in delicate loops and ribbons.

"Do you remember sitting for us when we were doing life drawing at school?" The memory and the question spring out of nowhere.

"God, yes. I'd forgotten all about that. I made you pay for my coffee habit for two weeks for that."

I laugh. I hadn't recalled that detail at all. And it would have been worth twice that price if she'd asked. Not least because it'd granted me precious entry to her bedroom where she'd made me help pick out what to wear. Jeans, a loose shirt with a wide neck and the lace-up boots I'd been fantasising about for a good year by that point.

"You made me wear those boots. I'd give anything to still have those, I loved them so much."

"Yeah, they made you look amazing."

"You liked them?"

I shift around on the couch. "Uh, yeah. A lot." I grin, feeling like my seventeen-year-old self.

"Really?"

"Really, yes." And as she continues to fix me with one of her 'tell me more' looks, I add, "Will it suffice to say that last night's not the first time you've figured in my fantasies?"

She giggles, that lovely light sound that vibrates through me, connecting us as we hover between the newness of this place we're in and the familiarity of our friendship. She sits up, her gaze dipping.

"You have a nice chest. Not too much hair and not too little."

And that does make me laugh. "Happy to please."

She laughs back and it feels bloody brilliant.

+++

I trace my fingertip across the smattering of hair over his chest, around one nipple and back, feeling his tiny tremors under my touch. I know he's watching me, waiting.

"Your mother would scold me for objectifying the male body," I say, still moving my fingers over his body.

He exhales loudly. "Maybe we can leave Mum out of the rest of this evening's activities?"

"Bit of a passion killer?"

"Something like that."

I bring my hand to rest over his heart. "Will you stay tonight? I mean," I hesitate. "I'd just like you to stay." And again, I practically hang my head at how needy I sound.

While I struggle with that, I'm swamped with the blanket of warmth and muscle that is Ben. I guess I always knew he was a good hugger, but this all-around possession he manages is something else, as if he's trying to absorb me. It's such an intense feeling I have to concentrate to hear what he's saying, on what his hands are asking of me -- if we can take this into my bedroom because, yes, he'd love to stay the night but that doesn't mean we still won't be taking things slowly. I grumble about that in my head because my body's ambition for him -- for all of him -- is bright. And then it's clear I've said something to that effect out loud from the sharp slap to my bum and even as I open my mouth to complain, a burst of heat scatters throughout my body like embers from a bonfire and renders me silent.