Touch-Starved

Rice picks the shower head off the lower rung and puts it up higher -- it's maybe six feet up the wall, would still be a little too short for him personally, but weirdly enough, it's still higher on the wall than his at home. He doesn't know if April could even reach it.

The wire shelves are bolted to the walls instead of awkwardly stuck to the tiles with sticky patches like Rice's are, and they're at waist height, easily accessible from the shower chair.

"Did your bathroom cost a lot?"

"Yes, Arden, yes it did," says April. "Thanks very much for asking."

Rice laughs despite himself, and he pulls his shirt over his head before he awkwardly slips out of his briefs, which are beginning to be uncomfortably sticky rather than just wet.

"Where's the switch for the hot water?"

"There, next to the toilet, nice and easy to reach."

December shoves through the bathroom door, and April grabs hold of him even as he mrows a vague complaint, tossing him out again. He locks the door the second time, and then comes around the glass.

"Fuck," mutters Rice, staring down at his cock.

It's above average, maybe, but compared with April's surprisingly muscular, incredibly lean frame and his height, which must be 5'3" or 5'4", it seems pretty fucking big, only a little shorter than Rice's, even if it's not as thick.

"You're, you're, um, you're cut."

"You're so observant, Rice," praises April. "There's a chair in my shower room, I'm circumcised. What will those eagle eyes of yours notice yet?"

April sinks down into the shower chair, and awkwardly leaning around him, Rice turns on the water. He puts his hand under the spray at first, making sure it's running warm enough, and when he leans back and lets the water hit April, April groans, tipping his head back, his eyes closing.

It's maybe the most erotic sound he's ever heard, and even soft, his dick throbs.

"Scrub yourself down before you touch me," says April, his eyes still closed but somehow knowing it's coming before Rice touches him, and Rice shivers, but stands awkwardly to the side of April's chair, taking some of the spray without blocking it.

"Is it okay?" he asks as he watches April pour some soap out of a glass bottle onto a washcloth -- it's a kind of red-pink, and when Rice puts out his palm, April pours some over his fingers. "The water?"

"It's fine," says April, scrubbing soap over his shoulders.

Rice can't take his eyes off him as he rubs the soap into his chest with his palms, surprised by how much it froths and bubbles a little as he runs it down his belly, his cock.

It's --

It's hot, actually, a little hot. Leaves a kind of burning tingle on his -- "Fuck."

"Fuck?" repeats April mildly, leaning forward and scrubbing over his calves and the backs of his knees with the washcloth. It smells strongly, fruity and fresh, making his nose and his throat feel open and slightly numb.

"Um, I think, I, uh, fuck, ah," he groans, taking away from his cock as his pubes burn, or don't burn, exactly, but feel extremely cold, oversensitised. "I'm allergic? To your soap?"

"Aller -- Oh, fuck."

"It's watermelon and chilli," says April, and grips his waist, pushing him into the spray of the water full on. "It's a tingle soap, Arden -- the hot and cold burn is part of the point, I forgot. I'm so sorry."

"Ah," Rice groans, leaning back into him, and April squeezes his waist.

"I'm sorry," he says sympathetically, his fingers pressing into the meat of Rice's side, squeezing him as he tries not to squirm or move on his feet, the hot water hitting him and intensifying the tingle rather than just rinsing it away. "It'll only last a little longer."

"Why's it in a glass bottle?" Rice moans.

"I find the squeezy cunts a bit of a fumble," says April, and Rice laughs almost hysterically because his chest is burning and it's also cold and it's not that bad now he knows what it is, because he's never heard April say cunt before.

He's breathing heavy and he doesn't know if it's because of the awful-but-maybe-kinda-good-now-he-thinks-about-it tingle or if it's just from the way that April has positioned him and is holding him in place with the grip on his waist, thumbs digging into the flesh over his arse. He's keenly aware of how the chair puts April in line with his dick, or would do if he was facing the other way, and then he shivers again, his knees moving, knocking together.

"Good man," says April. "I've got some other soap, I think I've got some floral soothing stuff with camomile, might be a bit better."

"Do you have sex in here?"

"Mm, people ride me sometimes," says April distractedly. "Now and then someone feels very ambitious and has me up against the wall, but that's always murder on my knees. Even on a non-slip surface, Arden, I'm not made for shower sex."

He pushes Rice aside again, then goes back to washing himself off. Rice doesn't use soap initially as he tries to scrub the last of everything sticking to his cock and his neat-trimmed pubes, washes between his cheeks.

When he grabs the other bottle April hands him -- in a normal bottle, this one still with the original labelling on, is plastic instead of glass -- he pours a little over his hands again, awkwardly scrubs between his legs, making sure there's no tingle, no hot or cold either.

April drags him around and leans forward in his seat, starts scrubbing down his thighs and his calves and his knees, and Rice lets out a noise because it's weird and it tickles and it's not used to it, but April is smooth about it, almost businesslike.

He washes him down like it's nothing, like he does it all the time, like it's no different to washing his own legs.

"You're gonna, um, Sebastian, I can't -- "

"It won't be the first time I've had a half-hard cock in my face, sweetheart, don't you worry about it."

Rice's gulp is audible, and his hand stumbles on his own chest, under his own armpits.

"Surprised you don't shave your legs like you do your chest. Very neatly trimmed pubes, though -- what did you do, search for what was in fashion as far goes the landscaping?"

"Shut the fuck up," says Rice.

"I'll take that as a yes," says April mildly.

He isn't that hairy at all -- there's a little dusting his back and his chest, curling on his thighs and calves, his pubes, too. There's a narrow line from his navel down to his groin.

Once he's done scrubbing Rice's legs, he rinses his hands off and grabs a different glass bottle full of white soap instead of red, and Rice stares at how he massages it into his own hair, through the thick, dark waves of it, all suds between his fingers. He's massaging his own scalp, almost, it seems like, and Rice swallows again as April sighs, seeming to enjoy it.

"Want me to do yours?"

"Yeah," says Rice. "Um, I mean, may -- Can you? Is it...?"

"I can do it," says April. "On the floor, Arden."

"What?"

"Sit."

His knees buckle a bit automatically, but then he obeys, sinks himself into the gap between the shower wall and the side of April's chair, leans back against his legs as April pours shampoo over his hands and starts to lather it into his hair.

He's using his nails again, scratching and dragging at Rice's scalp, and Rice moans, his hands twitching toward his cock even though he's still not hard again, although he thinks maybe he could be if he touched himself, he concentrated a little.

"I've used too much of this," muses April. "You've not nearly as much hair as I do -- perhaps that's why I get so much more attention."

Rice chokes out a noise like that, and April laughs softly as well, scrubbing and dragging through his hair.

"Beautiful," says April. "Gorgeous thing."

Rice's hands twitch again.

"Too much? Not enough? Want to touch yourself?"

"Please -- "

"I'm not stopping you."

He wraps his hand around his cock and gasps, shoving his head back into April's hands, and April responds by full-on digging his nails in and making him whine.

"Oh, you're perfect," April murmurs, pressing his fingers into the surprisingly sensitive skin over his ears, behind them, and then pushes down his neck, making him moan with his hips stuttering up into his palm. "That's it, there you are. Good man, just like that."

April shoves his hand forward with one hand and uses the other to tilt up his chin so that when he rinses the lather out of his hair it doesn't get in his eyes, and Rice jerks into his palm and comes over it and it's obscene, ridiculous.

When he turns, his arse still flat on the stile, he sees that April's big cock is even bigger. It's not all the way hard yet, he doesn't think, but it's halfway there at least, the head a lighter, more pink-tinged brown than Arden's nipples are, more like the inside of his lips.

He swallows, shifting awkwardly on the rough tile underneath him, and he twists to try to -- He doesn't even know. Kiss it? Lick it? Just put his mouth on it, feel it under his lips?

April grabs him by the jaw and tilts his head up, making him whimper.

"Funny," says April coolly, and he stares down at Rice with water running down his hair, his sides, his shoulders. He looks otherworldly like this, looks almost fucking holy, statuesque. "I don't recall giving you permission to do that."

Rice's breath hitches.

"Rinse off the rest of that before you come out," says April, and pulls himself up.

He leans on a bar on the other wall as he towels himself off, and Rice hurriedly scrubs himself down, feeling embarrassed and out of it and --

Fuck.

When he comes out of the bathroom wearing new boxers and another man's t-shirt, it's to see April in his pyjama bottoms and a red t-shirt of his own, leaning on his kitchen counter and taking his inhaler as he preheats the oven, December purring on top of his foot.

"Did you turn the hot water off?"

"Yeah," says Rice. "The switch, uh, the light's off now."

"Good man," says April between inhalations, then sets his inhaler aside and pours seasoning over the chicken drumsticks he has in a dish. There are chips soaking in water on the side.

"Drain these?" asks Rice.

"Yes, do, that's a lad," says April absentmindedly, and Rice swallows at the way that makes him feel, hot and... good.

The thing is, April's talked to him like this before, does it all the time.

"Good man," and "That's a lad," and "There's a boy," because that's just how April talks, not just to Rice but to all kinds of guys, especially when people in the office help him carry stuff or move things. He does it with women, too, although not quite as --

Posh? Condescending?

Not as much of a turn on?

It's just that Rice has never noticed it before, never thought about how April talks to him, not that much. He likes it, yeah, he's always liked it -- maybe he jumped so much to help him in the first place because he was so free with praise.

He drains off the chips, and after he's done shaking off the moisture, he spreads them out on the kitchen roll April's laid out already, patting them dry.

"You have a fucking chip pan? How old are you? Aren't you scared of fires?"

"They're perfectly safe so long as one attends them properly and keeps them clean, thank you," says April dryly. "And I have a fireblanket in this drawer, plus the extinguisher mounted on that wall there. Want me to point out the smoke alarms for you too?"

April puts the chicken and vegetables in the oven, sets a timer, and he goes to wash up dishes but Rice stops him, starts washing them up himself.

April is smirking when Rice glances back at him. "Remember where everything goes?" he asks.

"Uh huh. Yeah."

As April sits down at the dining table, letting December hop up in his lap, Rice washes up his dishes and the two wineglasses resting beside the sink, dries them all up, puts everything away.

"You're so helpful, Arden," says April warmly. "It's very kind."

Rice shivers.

April always praises him for washing up his dishes for him, same as he does when Rice offers to take his rubbish out for him or peg up his washing or anything else. He likes to be helpful. He'd grown up doing chores all his life -- he always did everything at home.

"How do you feel?" asks April.

"Good."

"I expect you do," muses April, scratching December under his chin. "Two orgasms in forty minutes. Not what you're used to, is it?"

"Mmm-mmm. No."

"Hm," says April, and chuckles softly.

"I -- Sorry, about, um," Rice starts, stops, swallows. "About not asking for permission."

April smirks at him, running his hand back through his still-damp hair. "Quite alright," he says mildly. "I just don't want to fuck you tonight, that's all. I told you I wouldn't. Best we give you time to see if you want it."

"I want it," blurts out Rice. "I can be good, I'm pretty sure I can take it, or, or take... I mean, I guess you want to pitch and that's fine, I can, I've never done it before, but -- "

"Ch-ch-ch," says April sharply. "Hush, now. Not tonight, I'm firm about that."

"But if I want it, what's the problem?"

"The problem is that you're touch-drunk and eager for more," says April. "After dinner, I was thinking we might watch a film or something, and you can stay over, if you like."

"Okay," says Rice.

It's no big deal. They've done this before, so --

"You can sit next to me, or between my legs," says April. "Lie in my lap, if you like -- even sit in my lap, so long as you don't put too much pressure on my knees. I rather like a man in my lap."

"Huh?"

"And you can sleep in my bed, so long as sharing with me and December won't trouble you overmuch."

"Sleep... in your bed?"

"Mmm hmm."

"But not fuck?"

"No, not fuck. You can touch me as much as you like, but it's not a precursor to sex, Arden, it's... affection. Tomorrow, maybe."

Rice swallows, not sure what to say as he puts the wineglasses away, stacks up the plates.

"Touch-drunk," he repeats.

"Not a clinical term, I grant you," says April. "You're not used to being touched, and suddenly I'm touching you all over."

"So?"

"So you can't untangle your desire from that," says April plainly. "If you were starving, Arden, and I, a stranger, fed you, you'd no doubt feel very positively toward me -- it wouldn't mean I was truly your friend."

"What if I thought about you fucking me before?" he asks, not able to make eye contact as he stumbles over it. "We're not strangers. What if I was already thinking about it?"

"I wouldn't be surprised," says April. "We're still not fucking tonight."

"I can't sit in your lap," he says. "I'm not a fucking girl."

"Neither of us are fucking girls," agrees April. "Although I fail to see what that has to do with the price of milk."

"Men don't sit in each other's laps."

"Yes, they do."

"Not men like me!"

April huffs out a laugh. "I've had men bigger and scarier than you in my lap," he says pleasantly. "I've fucked them, too -- bent them over, spanked their arses, played with their tits, made them sob, made them beg for me to let them come. In short, I've made men far more masculine than you by bitch, and I've done so countless times."

Rice can't really breathe. He feels burning all over in a way that's not arousal, exactly, and is almost like the fucking soap again -- he feels humiliated and put on the spot and oversensitive all over.

"But the point of tonight isn't to humiliate you or dominate you, Arden."

"Isn't it?"

"Well, I'm dominating you a bit, but I can't help that, you submit so beautifully, and with such enthusiasm. I don't do it to emasculate you, is my point -- you're just so very lovely when you're taking orders."

The burning intensifies. He feels like someone's pointing one of those stage spotlights on him, one of those ones that's so powerful the light feels hot.

"See? Just look at you, you're a vision. Anyway, the point of being in my lap is the physical contact."

"Why can't you sit in my lap?"

"There's no reason I can't," says April pleasantly. "So long as I can sit in it at the right angle, I'm sure we can both be comfortable. Would you like that, sweetheart? For me to sit in your lap?"

Rice tries to imagine it but it doesn't really happen -- he thinks of earlier when he was lying with his head on April's thighs, how warm his thighs were, surprisingly comfortable even though the muscle was hard. The fabric of his pyjama bottoms looks soft and fleecy.

"No need to make a decision right away," says April, getting up and coming in, setting the chip pan on before washing his hands again. He brushes past Rice in the kitchen, touches him so easily, casually. He's small, compared to Rice, so fucking little.

How come Rice feels like he's the tiny one? Why is now the smallest he's ever felt?

"Do you watch porn?" asks April.

"Huh? No. No, that shit is... Nasty, dirty. It's too loud."

"You don't have headphones?"

"I can't stand it. The way people moan, make so much noise, it just feels fake."

"What do you think about, then? When you touch yourself?"

"I don't know," mutters Rice, swallowing and getting out of the way as he watches April season the chips. "Tits."

"Tits," says April. "Touching them, sucking on them, having them?"

"The fuck? No."

"Mashing your face into them? Being surrounded by them, overwhelmed by them?"

"Yeah, uh, yeah. I guess." Yeah, yeah, burying his face between them, feeling a girl on top of him, her arms wrapped around his head, keeping him close, pulled in. "How the fuck did you know?"

"Oh, sluttery makes me a terribly good judge of character," says April. "An amateur I may be, but I'm an ardent student of human behaviour, you know, I take in a wide variety of subjects. Wooden spoon."

Rice passes one over.

After they eat, Rice automatically washes up, and he's aware of April sitting down on the sofa, aware of the way December is sitting on the back of it, curling in against his neck.

When he goes over, he glances at the TV, glances at April.

April just looks back at him, expression not revealing anything, and with his heart pounding in his chest he drops on the side of the sofa, scrambles to lay his head in April's lap, rests his cheek on his thigh again.

"Look at you," murmurs April. "Beautiful boy. Yes, December, you too."

He nudges noses with the cat, smiling, and tosses a blanket from the back of the sofa over Rice, puts one of his hands on top of Rice's head, idly playing with his hair, and with the other he gently rubs his back in smooth, easy circles.

It's good. Perfect. Rice almost thinks he could die here, and he'd go out satisfied forever.

"Good boy," murmurs April. "Oh, you are just... irresistible. How could anyone not want to keep you forever?"

Rice shudders.

"There, there. Nice and calm, relax. Good lad."

At some point, December realises that Rice's neck is bigger and even more accessible in this moment than April's, and he drops to cram himself between April's belly and the back of Rice's head, his furry little chin flat against Rice's throat like he's a scarf.

"Oh, look, he fits," says April good-humouredly, and he plays his thumb over December's cheek at the same time he idly touches through Rice's hair, and Rice closes his eyes, almost can't stand it.

It's already nice, impossibly cosy, feeling April's heartbeat through his thigh and feeling how warm he is, the blanket thrown over him, April's hand rubbing circles or lightly scratching lines up and down his back, but December too, purring up a storm against his neck?

It's a kind of paradise, and he sinks deep into some warm, peaceful place of relaxation he's never been before as April flips through the channels and settles on some sci-fi horror thing that keeps making him jump and then laugh at his own reaction.

This annoys December, and after twenty minutes or so he bails and goes to sleep in his tree, but Rice grins at it, every time he feels the sudden flinch underneath him, or when April suddenly digs his fingers into his back.