Touch-Starved

"What's the difference?"

"We tread gently over a few beers, we can discuss your lack of intimacy with others, your difficulty with women. I can make a few suggestions on approaching them, talking to them. We can discuss what makes you so nervous and uncertain of trying in the first place."

Rice takes this in, keeping the bar on the inside of his elbow and shifting the set of his hand on the strap of April's bag, running his thumb over the fabric.

April's expression seems calm, satisfied.

"And the other way?" he asks.

"The other way, we get off outside mine, you come into the flat. No alcohol, initially -- we'll talk about the cause rather than the effect. How you want to be touched, what you crave. Why no one touches you. How it feels."

"You think I should do what you do? Sleep around?"

"If you like," says April. "But I don't sleep around because I'm lonely or because I'm starved of touch -- my family's very physically affectionate, as are many of my friends, you excluded. I enjoy touching and being touched, and I enjoy sex, enjoy people."

"So what, I go home with you and you fuck me?" He glances up the carriage as they stop at the next platform, but no one gets on at the doors beside them, and the nearest people are at the other end of the carriage, not close enough to hear.

April is looking up at him, his eyebrows raised. "I wouldn't fuck you tonight, no," he says quietly. "I really don't think that's the best idea. But I wouldn't be opposed to fucking you a little while from now, if you want it. It depends how our conversation goes."

"Who says I want it?"

"Well, my first clue was when you asked how big my cock was in the elevator."

Rice sets his jaw.

"We can talk about that too," says April. "Get a handle on whether it's an attraction to men, or an attraction to me because we're friends. Or just desperation because you're lonely and starved of affection, and you're crossing those wires with your libido."

"That's just -- "

"Tonight, when I touch you -- if I touch you -- it won't be to fuck you."

Rice's mouth is dry, and there's heat pooling between his legs. "When you touch me?" he asks.

"Mm," hums April, casually, like it's no big deal. "Hand massage, a back massage -- your feet, if you'd rather. If that's too much, a shave or a manicure."

Rice can't handle the idea of April touching his feet, or his hands. He can't imagine getting a manicure -- can't imagine April helping him shave or do anything to his hair.

April touching his back, on the other hand...

April's touched his back before. He's put his hand around Rice's shoulder, or he's patted him going past. Sometimes, he'll come over when Rice is working and stand next to his chair and he'll put the hand that's not on his cane on the back of Rice's neck.

He hasn't done it in months, but it drives Rice mental when he does it, and he constantly finds himself anticipating it whenever April comes behind his chair in the office -- April will rest his thumb right in the divot at the base of his hairline where it's a little soft and fleshy, and it feels like his hand itself is made to settle at the nape of Rice's neck; other times, he rests his hand right on Rice's shoulder and squeezes and it's... good.

Nice.

When he first started, the first time April did it, he kinda didn't know how to handle it, but he let him because -- Well, guy uses a fucking cane. He needed to be able to steady himself on things, keep upright, and at the time Rice had just thought to himself that April was steadying himself on him.

And sometimes, he'd call April over just to look at something. Just so he'd...

"Does that get you off?" asks Rice. "Giving massages?"

"No," says April. "I've received one or two massages that got me off, but I've never particularly taken satisfaction from giving them. Not sexual satisfaction, in any case -- I enjoy pleasing a partner, of course."

"Do you want to fuck me?"

"Not as much as I suspect you want me to fuck you," says April, and Rice lunges for him, shoves him back against the train wall, his hand gripping April's thin throat. April doesn't even look surprised. "Mmm, nice hands. Put them away now, behave."

Rice swallows, and he leans back, shaking out his hand and glancing down, but no one is looking their way, is pointedly not looking their way because they're two homos on the underground and it's probably obvious to all of them that April is the bear or the topper or whatever.

That he's the guy, and Rice is the girl, even though Rice has a hundred pounds of muscle on him easy and is a head and a half fucking taller.

"There's a good lad," says April coolly, and Rice's dick gives a jerk in his trousers.

"Last chance for the gentle approach," says April as the train comes to stop at the platform.

Rice stays in his place, his jaw set. He doesn't say anything, and when the train starts to move again, he looks at April's face, the slight curve of his lips. His eyes have a kind of distance or superiority in them, a wonderful confidence and certainty, and it makes him thrill, makes his skin feel too hot and too tight.

Rice wonders if he has this look with everybody he takes home.

"You put off talking about sex 'cause you thought you'd find me boring."

"I thought you'd be difficult," says April, unashamed, unflinching. "More aggressive -- more violent. Less... secure in yourself. I'm actually quite impressed."

Oh, fuck, why does that make his dick hard? April saying "impressed" like that, with that little tilt of his head and that slight raise of his eyebrows, that pout out of his lips?

"Do you think I'm gay?"

"Mmm, maybe. I had my suspicions when I met you."

"I like girls. I like -- tits."

"Tits are splendid," says April in an unbothered, idle tone, tilting his head to one side. "Of course, men can have quite nice ones." He looks at Rice's chest, at the swell of his pecs under his jumper. "I've always thought yours had a luscious quality to them," he says, tone still conversational as if Rice's knees don't feel weak. "They bounce when you pace too vigorously, and in those little thirst traps you post I've always felt your nipples just call out to be bitten and sucked on. Mouthwatering."

Rice can't breathe. All his blood is rushing between his ears and burning his cheeks or rushing between his legs and trying to convince his dick that the underground is a great place for an erection.

"What the fuck," he whispers.

"Hmm," hums April, and his slight quirk of lips becomes a real smirk. "Funny, isn't it? You know you're a big strong man, all that muscle -- and you shave, don't you? Shave your chest, your navel, just the same as you shave your face? Landscape everything to show off all that smooth skin? But no one says it out loud, outright praises your body."

Rice swallows, gripping the bar so hard he feels like it might bend in his grip.

"You've got a very nice body, Arden. Strong and masculine and tough and all that blah blah blah, but it's quite an enticing body, too. Hot, attractive. Makes a man wants to sink right into you."

"Do people fucking -- talk like this to you? How do you...?" He rubs hard at his own cheek as doing that will soothe out the blood, and April laughs.

"To me? No, not exactly. But people do flatter me, yes, and I believe all the nice, horny things people say."

"Fuck," mutters Rice.

"That's the idea."

They get off on the stop around the corner from April's flat, and Rice takes the keys when April hands them over, holding the outer door open for him before they go up in the lift.

He's been in April's flat before, and it's warm, cosy, comfortable.

"Do I have to -- to take my clothes off?"

"Mm, no," says April, using a shoehorn to help him off with his shoes as Rice hangs up his coat for him, then slips off his own. "Not if you're not ready."

Rice doesn't know what ready would even look like, what it would feel like. He opens April's fridge.

"No beer, remember," April orders him just before his hand twitches for a bottle. "Anything else you like."

Rice pulls out the milk, and April smiles at him before he limps through to the other room. Rice can hear him saying, "Hello, hello! Yes, my beautiful good boy, yes, I love you too, yes, I know, I know. Let's give you some dinner, hm? Unfortunately, you'll be taking it in the bedroom."

God, it's weird to be horny over the way a guy talks to his cat, right?

Rice sinks down onto the couch, sips at his milk, waits. When April comes back into the living room he sinks down onto the arm of the couch and just puts his hand on Rice's shoulders; Rice jumps, but April grips him tighter.

"Ah," he grunts. "Ow."

"Good ow or bad ow?" asks April calmly as he digs his thumbs into knots of muscle either side, and Rice grunts again, not really able to talk, digging his fingers into his knees. He feels pain and pressure and then -- Relaxing. Unknotting. "Good man," says April, and Rice shudders.

April isn't touching his skin full on, and Rice is almost glad for that because he doesn't think he'd be able to handle it, April's palms and clever fingers directly against his skin -- April is already touching him roughly, digging into the muscles, stroking him up and down through his shirt and jumper.

Rice gasps as April finds a particularly stubborn knot of muscle and pushes and rubs at it with both hands, forcing it to untangle, to relax. Against his better judgement, he's leaning into him, trying to get closer to April's hands, and when his cheek touches his knee, he suddenly sits up.

"No, no, if that's what you want, come here," says April, splaying his hand on Rice's back and sliding the other up through his hair, messing it up so that Rice has to resist the urge to squirm, because no one touches him like that, like this. Gripping his hair lightly, April pulls him to the side until Rice's cheek is rested on his thigh -- he's skinny and it's not extremely plush, but it's warm and it's real and it's April, and the position feels somehow freeing, even if it's embarrassing.

It's strangely comfortable, for how awkward it is -- with April sitting on the arm of the couch, Rice isn't as worried about putting his whole weight on him as he would be, doesn't have to sink himself down as much as he would otherwise.

April leans right over him to slide his palms down Rice's back, down his shoulders to his lower back, outward to his hips, then back up. Rice puts his hand on April's knee shyly, nervously, unsure.

"It's alright," says April. "It's my ankles that give me the most trouble. Just be careful."

"Careful?"

"Try not to pull on the kneecap, and don't twist my leg, if you would. You can grip my leg if you need to: if it hurts, I'll let you know."

He suddenly goes from using his hands to using his nails to drag down Rice's back, and Rice moans from low in his throat before he can even think about it. It feels good. Through his shirt and his jumper it's almost enough, sharp but not as sharp as he knows it could be, not as satisfying, and he squeezes the front of April's leg, shoving his face hard into the meat of his thigh.

"Oh, you like that, don't you?" asks April, as if he doesn't know. "Good, good."

He starts alternating between that, rubbing down his back, his shoulders, pushing and directly massaging him, and then the scramming motions, pressure and slight digging from his nails that make Rice breathless and keep eking sounds out of him.

"So responsive," murmurs April. "You really are gorgeous, aren't you?"

"Shut up."

"No, I don't think I will. Sublime body this is, with that handsome face and all, but here, look at you, coming to pieces over this touch. You're simply a dream -- a wet dream, at that."

He has to press his lips together because the sound that almost comes out of him is too embarrassing, his face pressing into April's thigh some more, and April is leaning right over him now, digging and massaging his lower back. He can feel the warmth of April's body shadowing his, feel the front of his woollen vest, and whenever April presses gently along his spine he gasps, wriggling, squirming.

April's fingers slide slower, almost between his arsecheeks.

"Shh, shh, don't worry, sweetheart," he says when Rice makes a noise he just couldn't admit to. "Nothing you don't want, nothing you can't handle. I'll not be touching you there tonight."

"You can," says Rice, his voice hoarse.

"Beautiful," April whispers in a way that makes his cheeks burn and his whole body shudder, his cock feeling uncomfortably squeezed by his trousers, as hard as it is. "So accommodating, aren't you? So eager, so obedient. No, I told you I wouldn't, and I won't. Another time, and only when you want to." His hands scratch up Rice's body, and he groans when April keeps it up for a while, digging his nails over where his back feels open and loose and untangled, strangely light and relaxed. "There's a good man," says April again. "That's it, sweetheart, just relax."

"Fuck, fuck, stop it," gasps Rice, and April's hands pause on his back, just freeze completely in their place. "No, no. Keep going."

"Stop what? Tell me. No nails, no palms, no fingers? No talking?"

"You called me -- Ungh, please -- "

"Sweetheart? You don't like that?"

His dick is so hard he can feel it throbbing, and it's actually uncomfortable, compressed in his trousers. "No, I... I like it. Can I -- "

"Can you?"

"Take off my...?"

"Anything you want. I can get you a blanket, if you need."

"No."

He scrambles up to shove his pants off but keeps his underwear on, gets back over April's thighs so fast he's embarrassed about it but it feels good, especially because he's closer this time, his cheek on the other thigh, so he can feel all of April's legs, his warm body.

"Looking a bit wet there," says April gently, and then, "sweetheart." Rice's hips buck without permission, his whole body on fire, and he gasps out, "I'm sorry."

"You needn't be sorry. I said I wouldn't fuck you, I didn't say you couldn't come. Is this alright?"

"Please. More."

April rubs slowly up and down his back, uses his palms and drags them down the backs of his ribs, further down so that Rice arches his back even as he presses his cheek harder into April's lap and grips tightly at his leg, fingers digging into the meat of his calf.

April drags up his shirt and jumper and then digs his fingernails into his skin, scratches halfway up his back as much as his clothes will rise up -- it's not hard enough to leave marks, but it's hard enough, different, with April's actual nails on him that he fucking wails.

His hips are bucking and his knees are almost up to his chest, his mouth open as he presses into April's thigh and tries not to bite down on the fucking meat of it, and April just keeps doing it, playing his nails over and around his lower back, and he craves it.

He craves it, he fucking needs it, aches for more of it but on his shoulders this time, and he's aware that his eyes are watering and that his cock is fucking soaked with pre- in his boxers like he's a fucking kid, and he's breathing shuddering breaths and can't focus.

"More?" asks April as if he's repeating something, and Rice realises he's repeating him, that he's been moaning the word "More," like it's a prayer.

"My -- Please, Seb, fuck, fuck -- "

"You know full well I don't care to be called Seb, Arden."

"Sebastian!" Rice moans, and April's laugh is soft and powdery and feels like it's covering him all over.

"Oh, you poor thing," he says, his voice sounding warm and easy. "Hips up."

Rice obeys without thinking, and April pulls up his shirt so it's in line with his chest. It's weird, uncomfortable, and he almost wishes he didn't have it on at all but he doesn't want to pull away for as long as it would take to tear it off, just needs to keep touching April, needs to keep clinging onto him.

April shoves his hand up under his clothes.

Rice is shuddering, can barely even fucking breathe, gasping and stuttering on every exhalation as April's slightly cool hands press bare against his shoulders, and it feels so fucking intimate, feels insane, and then he digs his nails in and Rice sobs.

He's bent up like a fucking pretzel and he knows he's coming and it's humiliating and overwhelming and unbearable and impossible and he never wants it to stop, he's sobbing out real fucking tears like he's a little bitch and arching into the dig of April's nails.

"There, there, you're alright," says April softly, his voice sinking warm through the haze Rice was buried in, his cock wet and sticky in his fucking briefs. "Let -- Ah, Arden, move that hand, would you?"

"Huh?"

April's fingers push under Rice's fingers and Rice realises he's been gripping right under his knee, and he suddenly hauls his hand back. "Oh my God, I'm sorry, fuck, I'm sorry, are you okay? Oh, fuck -- "

He tries to sit up, but April soothes him, patting his back.

"Calm down, big fella, you didn't hear anything crack, did you? Just a bit too sore there to be gripped on, that's all. Shh, shh, there's a good boy. You've done so well."

"I need to -- I need to..."

"A change of underwear wouldn't go amiss, I expect."

Rice swallows, so humiliated he can't stand it, and April laughs, smoothing his palms over Rice's back and then tugging his shirt down, and he smacks his palm over his shoulders in a way that kind of echoes through his ribs and it's -- It's nice, actually. Surprisingly so.

"I don't wear briefs," says April, "but luckily, I do have some boxers in the back of the cupboard that are undoubtedly in your size."

"Why?"

"I have aunts with an unbelievably inaccurate estimate of how big my arse is, it seems. Want a shower?"

"With you?"

When April doesn't say anything, Rice turns in his lap and looks up at April's face, at April's thoughtful, considering expression.

"If you fit," he decides, and gets to his feet, setting his cane aside and leaning on the furniture as he leads the way out of the room.

When April opens the bedroom door, his cat immediately launches himself through the crack in the door and winds his way around Rice's feet, making him laugh breathlessly.

"Hi, December," he says, reaching down and scratching the top of the cat's head with his knuckles.

April leans on the doorhandle, on a side table, then sinks back on the bed before pulling open a drawer and pulling out a pair of PJ pants and a shirt, then digs through the back of another for an oversized t-shirt that looks big enough to fit Rice and a pack of boxers.

"That from an ex-boyfriend?" he demands when he holds it in his hand, sees that it's a Man U t-shirt when April's never watched a game of football in his life, let alone that it's an XXL, that it's gonna be a little loose on Rice, let alone April.

"I'm the sort of slut who keeps and accumulates the clothes of his lovers, yes," says April uncaringly, pointedly ignoring Rice's hot-headed feeling that he doesn't want to believe is jealousy. "Quite the grab bag I have here -- I'm sure there's a brassiere that might fit you, perhaps some joggers, even."

He tosses the boxers over to him too.

He's been in April's bathroom before, but has never actually opened the frosted glass door that goes into his shower, where he's got a whole little room for it.

"There's a chair," says Rice.

"Yes, I have a disability," says April. "Have I never mentioned it?"

The shower tiles have a rough surface to them, lots of tiny little knobs on them so that instead of being slippery and smooth they have their own traction, and there's bars on the walls, too -- one in parallel to the shower, one horizontal at waist height. There's several hooks for the shower's head, and as April sits on top of the toilet and starts to remove his clothes, folding them on top of the laundry basket, he says, "Put it on the highest rung, won't you? It'll be too low to hit both of us, otherwise."