Misbehaving

~Anyone ever tell you you have a gorgeous smile?~

~Nnnope.~

~Then I guess I'm your first.~

~Hah. Not even. I've been WELL used.~

~And none of them ever told you that you had a gorgeous smile?~

~Still nope.~

~That sounds more like plain used to me. BTW, you have a gorgeous smile :) ~

Zac swept up his gear, shoved his chair back and stood, eyes blazing, his whole body arcing and sparking with fury as he stalked, not out the door, but across to my table to fling himself in the chair opposite. The aura coming off him was one-hundred percent angry cat. That thought tipped me into a flashback - the sleek grace of him, as he negotiated that gap between tables, the sliver of belly peeking out, the way his dark jeans perched on his hips...

"It's no use trying to fuckin' romance me, okay, because it won't work!" he spat, leaning in on his elbows, chin in hands, all hot, hot fizzing defiance.

"Noted," I said, which if anything seemed to piss him off even more.

"I know what you're thinking," he hissed, "and you can stop thinking it right fuckin' now! It's not gonna happen!"

"Okay," I agreed. "Out of interest, what is it that I'm thinking?"

He seethed for a second or so, shoulders rising and falling. "You're thinking about how these stupid fuckin' fish lips of mine would look wrapped around your cock. I know how it is, I know-"

"Nuh-uh," I told him, lifting a finger to my lips, "no. Sh. I hadn't got that far yet. I was thinking...I was thinking about before, when you were squeezing between those tables," I gestured across the room, "and how, and how your shirt rode up and I could see you weren't wearing a belt and the way your jeans looked...and I was thinking about how there might be a little gap in the centre back where your waistband's sitting clear, there might be a beautiful little gap that I could get a finger in, or maybe two, and I was thinking about how your skin would feel if I was stroking you...stroking you just gently with the backs of my fingers, and..."

Zac had gone still when I started talking, very still, almost as if he was transfixed. Then he broke the spell abruptly, coming to his feet. "Okay. Let's go."

Holy shit, I thought, as I grabbed my stuff to follow him, hoh-leee shit. It is gonna happen. It is. And it's gonna be...a whole other thing...

The tension between us, it was incredible. Even though it was still raining and we had to run for my car, and it was still raining and my driveway was now one long lake that we cut a pluming wake through, and it was still raining while my door did its usual shitty thing, through it all the tension built and built and built, and it felt like a fever that wouldn't break until I was touching him, until I was up against him, until I was inside him.

I think it was the tension, the fever, that made me do what I did, because I'd never particularly felt a need to manhandle anybody before, but the instant he had his jacket off, I was on him, flinging him face-first toward a wall, following hard behind, crowding him into it while I lifted his hands and pressed the palms to the painted surface either side of his head.

"Stay," I growled, yanking the neckline of his t-shirt aside and attacking the skin of his shoulder with my lips and tongue and teeth, back and forth, over and over...I was aware, dimly, that I was jumping in the deep end, starting...kinda not at the start, but the fever...and I knew Zac was feeling it too. He hadn't said a word, but he was breathing hard and heavy and subtly flexing his entire body, and my thigh, when I pressed it forward, slid between his like a hot knife through butter...

My hands covering his, pressing in, continuing my assault on his shoulder, I ground on him for a while and he ground back.

"I'm gonna be so good to you," I whispered against his mauled skin, "I'm gonna be so good - but just so you know - you're gonna be able to feel where I've been for a lo-o-ong time."

A tiny shudder, a grunt that was edging into a moan. So, okay...he liked that.

I stepped away and pulled up his t-shirt, holding it bunched in my left fist halfway up his spine, looking down at his jeans.

"Oh yeah," I murmured, "oh yeah, there's a gap. Just...right...here..." grazing in super-gentle with my index finger. I felt a huge breath lift my fist. "That's one finger in, and that was easy, wasn't it mmh? No problem...two fingers now, Zac," sweeping side to side, across the tiny divot that was the very top of his crack, as he heaved in air, "you're taking this so well, how about we try three, baby? Three fingers, here we go...that's feeling a bit tighter isn't it? Not a lot of room...but you can do it, you can take it, can't you? You want to take it, don't you?"

The reply was all moan this time, a thready, surrendering yes. I eased my hand further down and discovered he was commando.

"Oh, what's this? No underwear - aren't you a naughty boy? Or were you hoping I'd take you home, is that it?"

I knew something was wrong before he spoke. The change was instantaneous. He didn't move, but suddenly he was rigid under my hands.

"Michel? I, um...don't. Sorry...to be a cocktease, but I wanna...I wanna back out now."

I let go. Took a step back. Zac turned to face into the room, keeping himself plastered against the wall, holding up his hands to warn me away. He looked shellshocked, and I felt sick to my stomach. I didn't know what exactly it was I'd done, but clearly it'd been way too much.

"God, I'm so sorry," I stammered, retreating another pace. "I didn't mean to...I came on too strong, I...fuck, Zac...I'm sorry..."

He shook his head. "No, you're good. Not...not your fault."

"Yeah, it is," I said. "I freaked you out."

He shook his head again, blinking rapidly. "No, I freaked me out. How...how I let this get away from me. I don't do this. I don't misbehave with people I know. Not ever. Too complicated. Just...no. And sorry. To have, um, lead you on. But..." He was edging toward the ranchslider as he spoke, getting ready to rip it open, turn and run. If the door cooperated.

"Zac, wait on," I pleaded. "It's still fucking pissing down out there, and it's too dark to see anything, and you're not exactly dressed for it! I'll take you home. I will, okay? You don't need to be worried about getting in a car with me. I'm not gonna try and...do anything more. Cross my heart."

His shoulders slumped. "Okay."

He'd capitulated, but he hadn't relaxed any. I tried to think what I could do to reduce the sense of threat. It occurred to me that my sheer physicality was half the problem. I'm intimidating by default, because I'm so big. I sat down cross-legged on the floor, hoping it'd help.

"Zac, listen," I pleaded, looking up across at him, "I'll drive you home. I'll take you whenever you ask. Promise. But...I think it shouldn't be just yet. I think we should hang for a bit and try to talk through this. Hear me out on this one. This is weird right now, yeah? Really...uncomfortable?"

He nodded rapidly, without meeting my eye.

"The thing is," I continued, "we have to go to work on Monday, regardless. That's just how it is. Realistically, we're not gonna be able to avoid each other. And I think that if we leave it weird tonight, it's going to be weird forever. And..."

"And people will notice," he said, swiping his palms down over his face. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." He slid down the wall and sat cross-legged himself, looking sour and angry. "So we're supposed to talk through this?" he hissed. "Mind telling me what the fuck that even means? Because I'm not planning to explain my bloody life choices to you. Or to apologise."

"I didn't mean that," I assured him. "And if anybody should be apologising right now, I think it's probably me."

He glared. "I'll pass."

We sat in silence for ten or fifteen seconds, until Zac spat, "This isn't getting any less uncomfortable!"

I grunted agreement. He was obviously feeling pretty hostile toward me, but I didn't feel hostile toward him. I didn't think I'd be able to feel hostile toward him even if he got up and kicked me in the balls. I tried to think about how I did feel, and...nope. Far too complex to pin a word on. But bad enough that the idea of being kicked in the balls was kinda...whatever...

"We don't have to sit on the floor," I said. "I have couches through there, and we could have a drink." Not alcohol though, however tempting it felt. Coffee? I looked at the clock. It was only...god, it wasn't even ten. Still kinda late for coffee, though. "You want a milo?" I asked. "Or I can do coffee, if you prefer?"

He shrugged. "Milo's good."

Milo is good. Comforting, grounding. Relaxing...hopefully. I brought two mugs and a packet of gingernuts through to the lounge, where he'd tossed himself onto a couch.

"Want a couple?" I said, offering the the biscuits.

He recoiled, clutching his mug to his chest. "Jesus, no! What is wrong with you? You don't dip gingernuts in milo! You dip them in tea!" He paused. "Or coffee, maybe, I guess."

"Tea?" I said, sitting opposite him, "Tea? Okay...you drink tea, and apparently I'm the weirdo? Whatever..." Slowly and deliberately, holding his gaze, I dunked a biscuit, leaving it until I knew it'd be just short of disintegrating before carefully transporting it to my mouth...

Zac closed his eyes and shuddered. "Ugh, you fucking deviant," he whispered. "You absolute utter freak." But the corners of his mouth were quirking.

"Oh, what?" I said trying to sound innocent, "Is it making you uncomfortable?"

He laughed. "Asshole."

We sat like that, throwing insults at each other over our preferred beverages, foods, movies, music, sports, RPGs...there wasn't much cross-over. But the atmosphere in the room started to feel a lot looser.

At about the point where Zac lifted his socked feet up onto my coffee table and spread out his arms along the back of the couch, I prompted, "So, what's with the whole 'misbehaving' thing?"

He snorted. "Oh, come on. I think you get it. Friday evening, head into town, hit some clubs, get some dick, sleep in the car. Saturday, do my errands, grab a shower at the pools, wait until evening, hit some clubs, rinse, repeat. I mean, what needs explaining there?"

"Why it's called 'misbehaving'," I said.

He smiled. It was the standard sarcastic variant, not the...really pretty one. "Ah yeah, that's down to my mum," he mumbled. Which explained approximately nothing.

There was a long pause while he stared down at his hands, but eventually he started talking again. "So, I grew up on a farm, right? Down south. Kind of a big one. As in, a station. Three houses on the site, and quarters as well, full-time manager, so on. My dad was the leading hand. Still is, far as I know." He shrugged. "Anyhow, we lived in on-site in one of the houses, but it was...y'know..." he gestured vaguely, "over on its own. None of them were close to each other. Now my dad was big into pig hunting, so we had pig dogs about the place always. You following me?"

I nodded, and he continued, "So we'd get the manager, Warren was his name - ugh, what a cunt - he'd be coming around a few times a week looking for Dad, and you'd hear him bumping up the drive in his ute and, you can imagine this right, always three, four, five dogs on the back, in the tray, barking away."

He slouched further, stretching his legs across the coffee table. "Generally working dogs are bitches," he said, "the heading dogs especially. And of course pig dogs are usually left uncastrated, for the size and the aggression. So every time he'd be coming, Mum would start screaming at us, 'Isaac! Lucas! Get them dogs tied up, or we'll be having all kinds of misbehaving!' and we'd have to streak out there and try to catch them and drag them away before they could get up on the tray of the ute."

He looked at me briefly, then away. "And I think...obviously I knew what she was on about from the beginning - it's not like you can shield kids from fucking on a farm - but at some point I realised it's not all equal. You run a ram in with a flock of ewes, nobody calls that misbehaving. That's servicing, or covering, or just...breeding. And...yeah. I think...when I accepted that I was never gonna be involving myself in the whole breeding side of the equation? I guess...I guess I leaned into the misbehaving thing a little."

I raised my eyebrows. "A little?"

"Okay. A lot." He smiled, and it was one of the good ones.

"And Isaac, eh?"

"Hey," he said, warningly, "I don't think you should be giving me shit about my name..."

"Believe me, I'm not," I assured him. "I never give anybody shit about their name. Ever."

"I get that," he said, "I get that. And seeing as we're on the topic, what the hell is with Michel? Your mother have her heart set on a girl or something?"

So I told him about Mum. And about Dad, and Ben, and Chloe. About home and rugby and giving up on rugby. He didn't really reciprocate - I guessed that home was something he didn't especially want to dwell on - but he told me he started driving a forklift for 'something to do in the meantime', while waiting out the time period before he could apply for a class 3 license.

"I wanted to drive trucks," he said, "but, y'know, the big suckers. Long haul. It was my thing, always. Just me myself and I on the road, in charge of umpteen tons of metal. But god, it's such a process. You have to hold a full license for six months before you can even apply for the light commercial grade - and who wants to drive a fuckin' milk float? - and then you've got to have that full for six months before you can move up a step, and then there's another step. Forklifts, all you need is an endorsement on your regular license, so I could get started right away. And then...I was good at it. Seemed to have a knack for it from the beginning, so...here we are." He stood and stretched. "Think I'll head back now, if that's good with you?"

"Sure," I said, getting to my feet, digging in my pocket for my keys. "Out of interest, what brought you all the way up here?"

He shrugged. "Not so cold up this way, is it?"

"Pretty friggin' rainy though," I pointed out, opening the door. It was still coming down crazy-pants outside.

"Fuck, you can say that again," Zac agreed, worming into his jacket. Once we'd made it to the safety of the car, he said, "Okay, so it might be wet, but it's a damn long way from Southland."

And there it was. What I'd suspected. "Don't miss anything about it, huh?" I said.

"Not much," he said. "I guess just the shearers."

I didn't mean to crack up at that. Fortunately he didn't take offence.

I poked his leg. "Okay, right. Zac misbehaved with the shearers - good times on the farm, eh?"

He laughed as well. "It was only once, dickhead. Only once."

Whereas for me, it was less than once. I got back from dropping him home, wrestled with my stupid door then stepped inside dripping all over the lino, and I saw...I saw that bit of wall. I remembered the way he'd looked, mashed up against the paintwork, the feel of him under my fingers, the way he responded to me, the way he was so, so along for the ride - until he wasn't.

I felt like I'd missed out on the experience of a lifetime. It would've been hot, yeah. But more than that, it would've been profound. It would've been...something else again. And it wouldn't have only been once. There was the kind of hunger behind it that grows, rather than abates, with feeding - which was maybe the real problem for him.

I went to bed and lay there wondering when the rain was going to stop.

-----

In case you care, it finally quit about 2pm on Saturday, by which time huge swathes of Northland were under water, and it was all over the news, and the Minister for Civil Defence choppered into Kaitaia to make a speech for a bunch of folk holding big fuzzy microphones. But it wasn't that much of a drama. Nobody died, and the water receded and the slips got cleared and things went back to normal. For me, though, it was a different normal than before, because once you've thought a thought? - that's it, job done. You can't un-think it. Can un-see what you've seen, un-feel what you felt. Zac existed, he was in my environment, and I continued to want him at levels which ranged from 'quite a lot' to 'clawing my eyeballs out'.

And then he started randomly visiting me in the evenings. Very randomly. No pattern, no warning. Seriously, I had a phone, he had a phone; you'd think he could at least text beforehand, but no, his chosen option was apparently to just materialise on the porch two or three seconds after I heard his car door slam. At the beginning, I would definitely have preferred not to have to deal with any extra of him. Fortunately, he ignored me at work in exactly the same way he always had. Unfortunately, he was already present continuously as a thumping bass rhythm all the way in my veins, but I couldn't exactly argue against us hanging out - I was the one who'd insisted it was the best way to normalise things.

Sometimes I actually thought it might work. Sometimes just being around him made me feel like I had a sticky lump in the base of my throat that I couldn't quite swallow, a sense of tension there, like everything was tight and constricted. Sometimes the sense of tightness and constriction presented lower down - at least with that, I could do something to relieve the problem after he left. But sometimes there wasn't a problem. Sometimes he could show up of an evening and we'd talk and laugh and joke around and knock back milo or beer and it all felt...fine. Occasionally these times would stretch into weeks, and I'd just get to the point of thinking; See? Told you so. It's sorting itself out. Time and patience, Michel. Time and patience is all it needs.

But no. Out of nowhere, I'd catch sight of a lopsided yawn, a long-fingered hand running across his scalp, making furrows in his hair, a sliver of smooth stomach peeking out as he stretched, and I'd be euphoric and grateful and hungry and horny and and despairing all at once, buried under an avalanche of emotions I knew would take me days to dig my way out of. And the worst of it was that sometimes it took nothing, nothing at all, to trigger it. Sometimes it just happened. He'd spawn on the other side of my shitty ranchslider and I'd walk over, slow and measured, to shunt the fucking thing open far enough to admit him, nod wordlessly at him like some bro, but inside I'd be all like a puppy whose owner just got home after a long day at work - with the jumping and panting and drooling and generally short-circuiting with excitement...

Maybe two months after the flood, two months into my new kind of normal, Tui cornered me as I was heading home one afternoon.

"I just wanted to let you know I'm really happy for you," she said in an undertone.

I was totally baffled. "Wha-at?"

"You," she said, nodding first at me and then across at Zac, who was strolling along buried in his phone as usual, her eyebrows significantly raised.

Oh fuck, I thought. People have noticed. But what had they noticed? Probably just his car outside my house - it was getting to be fairly light in the evenings.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I told her, calmly as I could.

She just nodded again, amusement and disbelief written across her face. Then she bloody winked at me. It was all kinds of weird, getting that sort of thing from somebody who was a grandma.

"We're not...there's nothing going on there," I specified, looking intently into her eyes so she could see I was wasn't joking.

She tipped her head to the side and regarded me for a moment, looking serious at least, but what she said was, "Ah...Michel? I already know he's gay. He told me so himself."