Well Balanced

"I'm glad you liked it," I say. I'm still working through my yogurt.

"I'm starting to think you starve yourself just so I can pick you up again," I say. The yogurt's gone. That's good. It was a nice pseudo desert after all that sharp and savory and salt. I'm not really a juice guy, so it fills the need for fruit that we all have. Darian just shrugs and goes back to absentmindedly looking around. He's drawn to the desk. The photos are there, and he wants to look.

"In a bit," I sigh, "You need a shower."

He looks down at his body. Scrapes and bruises and bits of gravel still in his skin. The hot water would make him feel better and he knows this. And he's probably been outside skating around for two days minimum. So, he gets a shower. He mopes a bit more, but he does as he's told. I have the duty of picking up and honestly, that's fine. The man collapsed from hunger. That does earn some bit of sympathy from me. I wouldn't have dragged him back here if it hadn't. I hear the water hiss and I load up the washer and go back to my couch. I close my eyes and let the weight lock them down. They hurt a bit. My arms are tired. My mind is spent. There is man in my shower and there's still a bit of work to do. But I have a moment to rest and doze and not care about the world.

I have a dream in my stolen moment of neutered death. It's fleeting and nonsensical and it involves a beach, I believe. I never remember my dreams. But it was good and gone and the world still filters through to my senses. The water's hissing in the shadows. I still catch the smell of my breakfast. The dishwasher thunks and rattles. The heater kicks on and the beach gets a balmy breeze and a brighter sun. I close my eyes on the beach and on the couch and I hear some cars start to peel out of the parking lot. Offices and suits and ties and bagged lunches with wilted lettuce. There's still an odd sting under my eye lids that this facsimile of sleep can't quite cover. A second passes on the beach and a minute passes on the couch. A second on the couch later, and the beach is reaching sun sent. The water turns off and the beach dries up. The dishwasher still rattles and clunks and chugs along. I'll have to empty it later.

"Hey Ty," Darian calls, "Where'd I put the rest of my clothes?"

A response bubbles in my chest, but there's not enough energy to get it out. The silence and the dream win out in my terrible daze. My eyes are closed, and Darian is dripping and naked in the other room. My dishes are being cleaned. My breakfast sits in my stomach, and I have nothing, nothing at all planned for the rest of the day. There is nothing that can pull me from the simple bliss of my reality. Darian's moving through my place, picking at the seams like a naughty cat and I don't care. I need sleep. I take sleep. I have sleep. There's a set of footsteps echoing down my halls and creeping closer all that time. They snicker when they see me, but I pretend not to mind. I have my beach and my dark and my dozing mind. Even as the body sits next to me. The dream slips away, and I am aware of my body in full.

There's pressure against me, only on the left side. It's warm. A little damp, but soft all the way through. It's one of my sweaters, I think. Poor thing didn't realize that it was the one that shed its cocoon and disposed the layers in some forgotten corner. So, he took what was mine and claimed it as his own. I don't care. I'm floating in the void, with the fingertips dancing against the veil of physical reality. And there are fingertips tracing something on my chest.

"Are you really asleep?" he hums, "Don't think I don't know why you really brought me back here. I know the routine."

That's good for him. It's a good routine. I like the routine. We're doing the routine and being all splayed out and relaxed is a good start to the whole minutia of the steps. Every single bit of the motion gets set up and calculated. I'm just here to capture it.

A leg drapes over mine and the whole of his body presses into me. He used my soap. He used my shampoo. That is also definitely my sweater he's wearing. It's soft and warm and good for cold mornings. And it's much too big for him, draping down his shoulders and exposing his chest. And I feel a good little surprise start rubbing against my hip. That's nice. I'm glad he's enjoying himself.

But that's not really the routine. I'm the most important part of the routine and he knows it. I don't know why he's giving me what I've earned. He's just taking what he wants and while it is nice, it's not the point. I am asleep, however. I can't be bothered to drag him back in line. I have my fake beach and my fake breeze, and I want to slip back into the nothing of being.

He nuzzles into my neck. His skin is so soft. Little divots of scars and scrapes and bruises from his art, but even those flow down into something pleasant to feel against my skin. He kisses me softly and I am still dead to the world. He'll figure it out. I'm having a nice dream. He's getting me excited.

"I really need to thank you Ty," he murmurs in my ear, "But I can't do that if you're asleep. You need to be awake for it, so I can make sure you know. Cause what's the fun if you're not there."

The nameless voice of pleasure does make a good point. I should wake up. The dream beach is nice with its dream waves and dream crabs, but there's a troublesome nuisance grinding on me and that is its own little pleasure. I should be there for that. I take a deep breath. I smell my soap. It works well with him.

"Oh, did I wake you up," he mutters, "I'm sorry. You just looked so peaceful when you're asleep. I couldn't help myself. "

I shuffle my arms a bit, still basking in the darkness of my closed eyes. The dream is gone, and the world is real and there's a cute boy being a shit who needs my help in getting anything actually done. My hand goes to his head, and he winces. There's a welt there, so that's out of the question. Shame. He responds so well to that, when I pat and tug and steer. I settle for his shoulders, sharp and cut. It still works. He still descends down my body. He still comes down to the actual work.

I am sad to have the warmth leave, but it's what is needed. He knows what I want. He knows what I've earned, and he's going to give it to me. He presses his cheek into my thighs, staring up at me. And the rather formidable task he has to go through. Such a procrastinator. Can't pay taxes on time, can't bother to eat regularly, can only be counted on to look pretty as he dances in the air. He gets to my zipper at least. He takes it down with a smooth motion. I am getting impatient.

And he knows it. And he, for once in his life, decides to be responsible. He kisses me through the thin fabric and that gets a fun little pull and twitch. The dream crumbles and shatters. It wasn't even that great in the first place. His reward for now is a deep sigh and that seems to be something I like.

"You really are tired, Ty," he hums, "not even hard for me yet."

I don't bother with a response. He knows how to fix that. He knows what to do. And he's doing it. He's kissing and playing, working the heartbeat up, getting me ready. I grow underneath the waistband until something starts peeking. The pull in my stomach likes the urge. The thoughts turn to the simple sparks and dull heat rising in my body. There's a sun poking through my curtain, and I don't care. His lips find my head and plant a soft kiss before pulling away.

He takes the cloth down to my thighs and finishes letting me grow. I can feel my heartbeat through my length as he stares at me. We're in the planning phase, letting his mind work through the possibilities. The approach is obvious enough. The motions even more so. In the act, however, there is so much room for improvisation. The lead up could change and that throws the whole sequence into question. But I am hard and in his hands and he knows what to do. I need to be there for it and that's more or less all I need to do for the moment.

Darian starts tenderly. He starts timid and shy. He always says it's intimidating, and I believe him. There's that same procrastination in there, but he likes it. He's scared of it. Such a terrible tool I have. It makes him make such sweet noise, gives him such sweet agony. It's impatient now and he knows it's only going to get worse.

He still only gives me tender lips and soft strokes. I know for a fact he's broken his hand at some point. He keeps the motions gentle. Such a brittle thing, really, but it always comes back together. He's always so eager to break himself again for that moment of weightless euphoria. He strokes me and kisses me, letting my breath deepen and resonate throughout the room. He pours himself into the moment. He pours himself into the noise. He works to give it more bass. He works to make it echo and reverberate with the earth below us. He shivers. It's so much more than him. It rattles his core, and he knows that I could shatter his entire body if I had the notion. I'll be gentle today.

His mouth stretches as the nerve finally peaks and he takes me in full. Such a struggle, such a burden, but he tries working through. He knows the motion and that wonderfully wet heat is sublime. Something tingles in the back om my mind and my hand clenches. My knuckles whiten. But I pull away from his hair. Still tender and sore and red. I am not cruel. I just merely want what I am owed.

His hand creeps up my stomach and his hands are calloused and rough. The dance, the rough tape and the hard concrete broke him down and he built himself back up. He can do it if he wants. And it does feel good to have that bit of texture with his soft mouth trying so hard. I readjust in my seat, and he doesn't like that. I happen to thrust a bit deeper into him completely by accident. But he manages.

His tongue works over me. His lips press and squeeze. He descends slowly, letting the wind calm his nerves against the cold hard heart below. He will not dash himself upon the rocks. He is much too scared, and I am much too forgiving. It will be a nice gentle landing and I move again. He gets the message. He is letting that terrible fear get to him.

And he dives until he is halfway down and that's all I've ever wanted. He's in the motion, fully and truly. Warmth and writhe and a probing muscle to make my nerves sing and dance, he gives me all of it. He's back on the top and I can't suppress the deep canyon moan in my chest. I don't want to. The windows rattle and the world shakes, and he lets it all flow through him. He is back, suffusing my entire body with the effort. And I am deep within him, pulling his own squeaks and coughs and little chokes with nothing more than my presence.

Darian is good at this. He's had training and he's had practice. I've made sure of that. I also see no reason to drag this out more than I need to. The sooner I've had my fun, the sooner we can move on back to the bed. As the urge ruses in my stomach, I let it come as strong as it can. I move my legs and press my shin into his back. He can still wriggle and writhe enough to escape the cage, but that would be difficult. My brittle little bird does not like things being difficult. And he grins. He is still getting something from me, that little thrill that he knows I'll have to take a breather after this. It's a small victory in the grand scheme of things, but it's a victory. He likes those too.

My core clenches and I let the moan carry on through me, nice and low. He resonates with it, humming a clean tone through my length. Everything collapses. Everything centers. It all breaks, and my legs keep him still. My stomach flexes with each shot down his throat. The seal remains strong and tight through the soft noise. The sun is bright and full. I am still tired, but I keep working down his body. I hold my breath and let it flow. So much tension, so much exhaustion, all of it flows down into him and we just wait for it to end. It takes a long, long time for it to stop.

He pulls away gently. I let out the breath I was holding, and I let the cage open. With my eyes still closed, I hear him swallow and cough and readjust himself. He did good. A hand comes to stroke his hair, careful of the growing welt and he presses back into my palm. I slowly open my eyes. He's smiling, a bit of my seed still flinging to the corner of his mouth. I take my hand and wipe it clean before sticking my finger between his lips. He gratefully licks it up and swallows it with the rest. Another finger joins and opens his mouth. All gone. I'm pleased. He's pleased. He has such beautiful hazel eyes, catching soft gleams of emerald crystal in the scant light from between the curtains. And I finally confirm he is wearing my sweater, his favorite, the one with some vaguely Scandinavian styling. Personally, I think he looks better in my Baja jacket, but it's not quite as soft.

"You're smiling, Ty," he hums as he lays down his head on my thigh.

"I wonder why," I say. The afterglow is still in my fingers, as soft warm sunlight dances over my knuckles.

"Is it because I'm here," he asks. He just wants to hear me answer, say the words. Let it all collect into something solid and tactile.

Instead, I simply reach down and hoist him up onto my lap, pressing my lips to his. I can still taste myself on him, through the meal I made, through the lingering aftereffects of that terrible energy drink he likes. It's sweet and sour and that's all his sugar rush addled mind wants. Someone has to look out of him, and I guess that little responsibility has landed with me. He presses back, trying to be rough, but still too timid for it to mean everything. I can feel his erection poke me into the stomach, a soft warm spot bleeding through the fabric. Poor thing got too excited, I think. And it has a fun friend to play with.

It takes him a moment to realize that I'm not quite done. He just has his own soft bed of light to fall into, to tease out with soft administrations from our bodies. He works his hip up my stomach, letting the hardness pull some gentle motions. And he feels that I'm still hard. That's a problem. For him, not me. He'll take care of it, once he figures it out.

He rocks his hips against my body, riding up my own shirt until my stomach feels his. Tight and hard, he is so thin, so razor thin. Still blocked and built, fit for the air, fit for the weightless dance he has perfected. He's light and tense and slowly creeping down. He's avoiding it. If he never sees it, then it doesn't exist. But he'll find it eventually. I move my hips, and something touches him.

"Really," he hums, "Still hard? Such a greedy little thing you are."

And such a blunt barb. It doesn't even pierce the skin. But I have to respond. I have to let him know that this was a bad move, and he knew it was a bad thing. I'm not the one who needed to be dragged out of the ditch. I'm not the one who needed new clothes and a meal. My hands scrape down his back. I leave gentle red lines with my nails, and he bristles under the touch. I threaten to break him, and it will never come to pass. Not that he knows it. There's an implied threat and that's more than enough to get him where I want.

I grip his hips and he slowly drops. I move to his ass and squeeze. I'll leave marks there as well. He mewls and shivers and all the defiance falls down into nothing. He pushes into my neck, breath hot and heavy. I'm ready. He's ready. He's just timid now, but he has his strength back. I fix that.

My hands spread him open, and Darian knows better than to fight me on it. He moves and positions and shifts and does everything he can to help me. He shivers and breaks and stammers under my grip. He shifts and moans as I start to prod. He's twitching. He's holding onto me like I'll try to save him. I won't. He just has himself to blame.

I enter him and he grips into me. Strong, he is so strong. He is still able to get back up after every single fall he's ever taken. A scare here and there, a hospital stay with a cast and a surgery, but he always, always puts himself back together, etching the cracks in glimmering cold. The Celtic knot masks an old scar. The plane marks a broken bone. Each bit of color on him is earned. And I am slowly entering him, adding my own mark to the endless tapestry of his art. I peek over his shoulder. There's a trio of thin red lines down his back. There's a palm print on his ass. There's a beautifully fragile mess clinging to every inch of my body and I am working into it.

"Halfway," I murmur, "Are you still doing alright?"

He stammers a deep breath, relaxing a bit more and letting me in an inch more. He nods. He can take it. I can make him take it. I move a bit under him and there is a bit more in him now. I thrust into him, and he keeps still. He has to hold it all in. He has to keep everything still for me before he melts into a complete and utter mess. I pull out and five him space to breathe. I push in and make him stutter everything he is. I can feel the shape I make in him through his stomach. I can trace my progress, every inch of every second.

Each second, I start to move faster. Everything is pushing more and more effort into the act. He gets used to my presence and starts bucking back. He starts to match my rhythm. He starts to let go of the conscious thoughts and go back to the small movements that only the base of the spine can handle. Instinct, there is only instinct between us. The set up has come and we are flying together. I lift and drop his hips in the only way I know how. It grows in strength like cresting waves, and I think this position is too limiting for the both of us. His hands are around my neck, bracing and holding and begging for support.

I turn him around and he gives me a wonderful little scream. He's face down into the couch now. He's gripping the cushions and I'm starting to work. My hips burn into him. My whole body lays into him and he takes me beautifully. The world collapses into the simple act of my hips. Nothing matters. I keep moving. He keeps moving back into me. I put my hands to the back of his neck and keep him down. He's tight and warm, hugging me hard as I keep the pressure. I have only the pressure. We reach the point of no return, and it is beautiful.

"All the way," I hum in his ear, "You did so good."

I don't get a word in response. I just get another meandering moan that does nothing to stop me. I lay into him. There's no reason to stop. I have another in me, and it needs release. The warm afterglow has given way to a raging heat. I need my release. I near my climax. He's going to get his if only by happenstance. I keep thrusting. Force, I am just a force to keep him still. His hips start shaking. The poor thing is trembling.

And good for him, I'm getting close. I've drawn this out long enough. I keep thrusting, pushing myself even harder as that simple heat slips down into my core. The muscles clench and tighten. He holds onto me, stammering and shivering like the world is ending. It is so terrible, everything I bring down into him. There is a dull white expanse building within him that will leave him hollow. His stomach clenches and I think he has his own wonderful release, staining my couch.

My hand creeps over and finds his mouth stammering nothing and nonsense. My finger finds its way into his mouth, and something hooks. I pull and spread, and something gives in me. It's hard and hot and tense. Everything breaks in me and into him. Everything shatters and that's wonderful. We are all so fragile and tender. We are all so strong and stalwart. He doesn't break. He thrusts back into me and holds my entirety, our hips meeting and our bodies close.

The waves come from my core and flow into him. I give him the scalding heat, and everything is calm. I can't think of anything. I don't want to think of anything. There is that sweet oblivion and it stretches into infinity. Deep breaths, deep moments together with thin blades of sunlight cutting me. They cut my eyes. They cut our frame. I keep filling him with my endless release. The one before was a simple prelude.