The vibration in his hand was a live wire. Matt’s reply wasn’t words, just an address—the boathouse, his family’s old, disused property on the coast. James drove with his father’s cologne in his nostrils and Matt’s phantom scent beneath it, a war in his lungs. The boathouse door groaned open to reveal Matt backlit by a single lantern, his face all shadow and stark need. He didn’t speak. He simply closed the distance, his calloused hands framing James’s face, and kissed him with a desperation that tasted like salt air and confession.
It was a collision. Teeth and tongue and the sharp, clean smell of the sea on Matt’s skin. James’s back hit the rough wooden wall, the impact shuddering through him. Matt’s hands were everywhere—tangling in his hair, gripping his hips, pulling at the crisp fabric of his shirt. James gave it all back, his own hands finding the familiar planes of Matt’s back, the muscles taut and trembling under his flannel. The kiss broke only when they needed air, foreheads pressed together, breaths ragged and mingling in the cold, damp air of the boathouse.
“I can’t do it anymore,” Matt whispered, the words raw against James’s mouth.
“Do what?”
“Pretend I’m not dying.”
James felt the confession like a physical blow. He captured Matt’s lips again, softer this time, a silent answer. His fingers worked at the buttons of Matt’s shirt, pushing the fabric open. He needed skin. He needed the truth of him, the heat beneath the lies. Matt did the same, yanking James’s tailored shirt from his trousers, the buttons pinging against the wooden floor. The cool air hit James’s chest, raising goosebumps, but Matt’s hands were there, warm and rough, mapping his ribs, his sternum, his frantic heartbeat.
Matt dropped to his knees. The sight stole the air from James’s lungs. In the lantern light, Matt’s face was all reverence and hunger. He pressed his mouth to James’s stomach, a hot, open kiss that made James jerk. His hands worked James’s belt, the buckle clinking loud in the hollow space. He dragged the zipper down, the sound obscene. He didn’t pull the trousers off. He just pushed them down James’s thighs, along with his briefs, freeing his cock.
James was already hard, aching, the head flushed and wet. Matt looked up at him, his eyes dark pools. He didn’t smile. He leaned forward and breathed him in, a deep, shuddering inhale. Then his tongue, flat and hot, licked a slow, torturous stripe from base to tip.
James’s head thumped back against the wall. “Matt.”
Matt took him into his mouth. Not all at once. An inch. Then another. His lips stretched, tight and perfect. The heat was absolute, wet and velvet. James could feel the pulse in his own cock beating against Matt’s tongue. Matt’s hands gripped his bare hips, thumbs digging into the bone, holding him still. He began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that had nothing to do with hurry and everything to do with consumption.
James watched, transfixed. The play of lantern light on Matt’s bowed head. The way his throat worked. The soft, wet sounds. Matt’s eyes were closed, his brow furrowed in concentration, as if this was the only thing in the world that made sense. He pulled off, his lips slick and swollen, and looked up. “Tell me you’re mine.”
“I’m yours.” The words were a gasp. “Only yours.”
Matt took him deep again, swallowing him whole until James felt the head of his cock nudge the back of Matt’s throat. A groan ripped from him, echoing off the high, corrugated tin roof. Matt held him there, his throat fluttering around him, until James’s knees buckled. Only then did he pull back, letting James slip from his mouth with a soft pop. A string of saliva connected them for a second before it broke.
Matt stood, his own need obvious in the tight strain of his jeans. He kissed James, letting him taste himself—salt and musk—on Matt’s tongue. “I need to feel you,” Matt murmured against his lips, his voice thick. “All of you. Now.”
He turned James around, pressing his chest against the cold, splintery wood of the wall. James braced his hands flat, the grain rough under his palms. He heard the rustle of Matt’s clothes, the zip of his own discarded trousers being searched. Matt’s wallet. The crinkle of a foil packet. The sound of him rolling the condom on, slick with lube.
Then Matt was against him, his bare chest hot against James’s back. His cock, sheathed and wet, pressed against the cleft of James’s ass. One hand splayed on James’s stomach, holding him close. The other, fingers glistening, reached between them.
“Breathe,” Matt whispered into his neck.
The first touch was a cool shock. Then a finger, pressing, circling, working him open with a practiced, urgent gentleness. James pushed back against it, a silent plea. He was tight, the stretch a bright, sharp ache. Matt added more lube, a second finger, scissoring him carefully. The burn melted into a deep, throbbing need. James was panting, his breath fogging in the cold air. “Please. Matt, please.”
Matt removed his fingers. He positioned himself, the blunt, broad head of his cock pressing where James was open and wanting. His hand on James’s stomach tightened. “Look at me,” he said, his voice ragged.
James turned his head, his cheek against the rough wood. Matt’s face was inches away, his expression utterly shattered. Raw love. Raw fear. The lantern light caught the wet track of a single tear he hadn’t shed.
Matt pushed inside.
The stretch was immense, overwhelming. James cried out, a choked, guttural sound swallowed by the boathouse. Matt went slow, an agonizing, perfect inch at a time, letting James’s body fight and then accept him. He didn’t stop until he was fully seated, his hips flush against James’s ass, his own breath coming in ragged sobs against James’s shoulder. They were locked together, motionless, fused. James could feel every inch of him, the heat, the pulse, the terrifying rightness of it.
“James,” Matt breathed, the name a prayer and a curse.
Then he began to move. A slow, deep withdrawal, then a thrust that drove the air from James’s lungs. It wasn’t frantic. It was deliberate, each stroke a claim, a punctuation to their silent argument. The wooden wall creaked with their rhythm. The sound of skin slapping skin, of their mingled gasps, of Matt’s soft, desperate grunts filled the cavernous space.
James reached back, gripping Matt’s thigh, urging him deeper. The angle shifted, and Matt’s next thrust brushed against that place inside him that unraveled everything. White light sparked behind James’s eyes. A broken moan tore from his throat. “There. Right there.”
Matt found the angle and kept it, his thrusts becoming more focused, more relentless. He wrapped a hand around James’s cock, which was hard and leaking against the wall. His stroke matched his thrust, a perfect, devastating syncopation. James was fracturing, the pleasure coiling so tight it was a kind of pain. The world narrowed to the heat of Matt inside him, the rough grip on his cock, the salt-and-sawdust scent of Matt’s sweat.
“Come for me,” Matt growled into his ear, his voice fraying at the edges. “I need to see it. I need to know I can still make you feel this.”
It was the crack in his voice that did it. The vulnerability beneath the command. The coil snapped. James’s body seized, his back arching as his climax ripped through him. He came over Matt’s hand and the weathered wood, stripes of white in the lantern light, his cry muffled against his own arm. The pulses seemed endless, wracking him, draining him.
Feeling him clench and spasm, Matt lost his rhythm. His thrusts became erratic, desperate. He buried his face in James’s shoulder, his own release hitting him with a shuddering, silent violence. James felt him pulse deep inside, again and again, a hot, final claim. Matt held him there, locked, until the last tremor passed.
For a long time, they didn’t move. Just stood, joined, breathing in the damp, cold air. Slowly, Matt softened and slipped out. He rested his forehead between James’s shoulder blades, his breath hot on James’s skin. His arms came around James’s waist, not in passion now, but in a simple, desperate hold.
James turned within the circle of his arms. Matt’s face was streaked with sweat and something else. James wiped a thumb beneath his eye, coming away wet. He didn’t comment. He just kissed him, softly, a closed-mouth press of lips that tasted of salt and exhaustion.
They dressed in silence, their movements slow,
They dressed in silence, their movements slow, heavy with the weight of what had just passed between them. Matt zipped his jeans, the sound final. James buttoned his shirt with trembling fingers, the fine cotton now wrinkled and smelling of salt, sweat, and sex. The phantom warmth of Matt’s body still clung to his skin beneath the fabric, a secret layer. He found his belt coiled on the floor near a puddle of lantern light.
Matt stood by the open boathouse door, looking out at the dark water, his broad shoulders a silhouette against the night. The wind off the coast was cold now, cutting through the warmth they’d built. James finished dressing and walked to him, the old floorboards groaning under his steps. He stopped a foot away, close enough to feel the heat still radiating from Matt’s body, but not touching.
Matt didn’t turn. “Your father’s expecting you.” His voice was gravel, worn smooth by emotion.
“I know.”
“You’ll be late.”
“I know.”
Finally, Matt turned. His face in the moonlight was hollowed out, beautiful and ruined. The tear tracks had dried, leaving faint salt trails. He looked at James as if memorizing him. “Then go.”
James didn’t move. The space between them was electric, charged with everything unsaid. The confession of dying. The raw, claiming sex. The terrifying love that had nowhere to live. Leaving felt like tearing a graft from a wound.
Matt’s jaw worked. He took one step forward, closing the distance. His calloused hands came up, not with the earlier desperation, but with a devastating tenderness. They framed James’s face, thumbs stroking his cheekbones. His touch was a question.
James answered by leaning in.
Matt’s mouth met his. It was not the hungry, consuming kiss from when he arrived. This was slow. Deep. A tasting. A goodbye. James could feel the slight tremble in Matt’s lower lip. He could taste the salt of his own skin, the faint bitterness of fear, the unique, warm flavor that was just Matt. He opened for him, and Matt’s tongue swept in, not claiming, but seeking. Remembering.
James’s hands came up, fisting in the soft, worn cotton of Matt’s t-shirt at his sides. He held on as if the kiss were a lifeline. He poured every silent promise, every choked-back plea into it. I’m yours. I’m scared. Don’t let this be the last one.
Matt’s breath hitched. He broke the kiss, but only to press his forehead hard against James’s. Their noses brushed. Their breath mingled, fogging in the cold air between them. Matt’s eyes were squeezed shut. “Ti amo,” he whispered, the Italian rough and true. “You know that, right? No matter what happens out there. You know that.”
“I know,” James whispered back, his throat tight. “I love you. Only you.”
Matt nodded, a sharp, pained movement. He pressed one last, closed-mouth kiss to James’s lips. It was dry. Chaste. It felt more intimate than anything that had come before. A seal.
Then his hands dropped. The cold air rushed into the space where his warmth had been.
“Go,” Matt said again, his voice barely audible.
James turned. The walk to his car, parked on the crushed-shell lot, was the longest of his life. Each step was a separation. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t. He fumbled with his keys, his hands unsteady. The door of his sensible sedan opened with a dull click. He slid inside.
Only then did he look in the rearview mirror. Matt was still standing in the boathouse doorway, a dark cut-out against the dim lantern glow inside. He wasn’t waving. He was just watching. A sentinel of their ruin.
James started the car. The engine purred to life, an obscenely normal sound. He turned on the headlights, the beams sweeping over Matt, illuminating him for a stark second before James turned the wheel and pulled away. In that frozen frame, Matt’s expression was unreadable. Just a man standing in a doorway, alone.
The coastal road was dark and winding. James drove on autopilot, the taste of Matt still on his tongue. His body ached in specific, tender ways. The pleasant soreness of being stretched. The ghost of Matt’s hands on his hips. The sting on his back from the rough wood. They were proofs. Tangible evidence that the last hour had been real, and not another desperate fantasy conjured in his childhood bedroom.
He rolled down the window, letting the cold, salt-heavy air blast in. It didn’t cleanse. It just mixed. The scent of the boathouse—tar, old wood, sex—clung to his clothes, his skin. He could still smell Matt’s sweat on his own collar. He breathed it in, a secret reservoir of courage for the performance ahead.
An hour later, he pulled into the long, manicured driveway of his parents’ house. Every light was on, glowing golden and false against the night. The house was a monument to quiet success. He cut the engine and sat in the dark, watching the kitchen window. His mother’s silhouette moved behind the glass, setting the table for a late supper he’d said he might make.
He reached into the glove compartment. His fingers found the small, travel-sized bottle of his father’s cologne—Citrus and Sandalwood, Eau de Toilette. A prop. He sprayed it once, twice into the air of the car, then leaned into the mist. It settled over him, cloying and familiar, a chemical mask. He sprayed a puff directly onto his wrist and rubbed it against his neck, over the place where Matt’s stubble had burned his skin.
The war was in his lungs again. Sawdust and salt versus citrus and sandalwood. Truth versus fiction.
He got out of the car. His body felt alien in his polite clothes, the memory of nakedness a screaming contrast. He smoothed his hair in the reflection of the car window. He practiced a smile. It felt like a crack in porcelain.
The back door opened before he reached it. His father stood there, an apron over his tailored trousers, a glass of red wine in hand. “James. You made it. We were about to start without you.” His tone was light, but his eyes did a quick, assessing sweep. The look that checked for disarray.
“Sorry, Dad. Traffic on the coastal road was worse than I thought.” The lie slid out, smooth and practiced. “Just a long day at the office, followed by some… tedious client drinks.”
“Well, come in. You’re letting the cold in.” His father stepped back, his gaze lingering for a half-second on James’s shirt. The wrinkles. James willed himself not to adjust it.
The kitchen was warm, bright, sterile. His mother kissed his cheek. “You look tired, sweetheart.”
“I am,” he said, and that, at least, was true.
He took his usual seat. The conversation flowed around him—his father’s golf game, his mother’s charity committee, the neighbor’s landscaping. James nodded, smiled at the right moments, contributed a vague comment about market volatility. He cut his chicken into perfect, even pieces. He chewed. He swallowed. It tasted like nothing.
All the while, he was screaming inside.
His body was a live wire of sensation, replaying the last hour on a loop. The feel of the rough wall against his palms. The shocking heat of Matt’s mouth. The deep, filling stretch. The exact sound Matt made when he came—a shattered, silent gasp against his shoulder. The salt of his tears. The final, desperate kiss that tasted like a ending.
His phone, face-down on the table beside his plate, was a dead weight. A connection severed. Matt would be driving home too, back to his own performance. Back to his mother’s questions about where he’d been. Back to the smell of sawdust that was his alone, not theirs.
“James?” His mother’s voice cut through the reverie.
He blinked. “Sorry. Miles away. What was that?”
“I asked if you’re seeing anyone.” She said it lightly, spearing a green bean. “You’re so quiet lately. A nice girl from your firm, perhaps?”
The question was a knife, twisted casually. He felt the phantom grip of Matt’s hand on his hip. Tell me you’re mine.
He made himself chuckle, a dry, empty sound. “No, Mom. No nice girls. Just work.”
“Don’t let work become your whole life,” his father intoned, swirling his wine. “Balance, James.”
I am balanced on a knife’s edge. I am living two lives and dying in both.
“I’ll try,” James said.
After dinner, he helped clear. He stood at the sink, rinsing plates while his mother loaded the dishwasher. The hot water ran over his hands. He stared at his fingers, the same fingers that had gripped Matt’s thigh, that had fisted in his shirt. They looked like a stranger’s hands. Capable, clean, polite.
He excused himself, pleading a headache from the wine. He climbed the stairs to his childhood bedroom, now a tasteful guest room that still held the ghost of his teenage self. He closed the door. Locked it.
For a long moment, he just stood in the center of the room, breathing. The performance was over. The mask was off. The silence was deafening.
He walked to the en-suite bathroom and flipped on the light. The face in the mirror was pale, eyes haunted. He leaned close, looking for marks. There were none. Matt had been careful, even in his desperation. No bruises. No bites. Just the memory of pressure.
He unbuttoned his shirt slowly. He let it fall to the tiled floor. Then his trousers. His briefs. He stood naked before the mirror, under the harsh fluorescent light.
There, on his hips, were the faint, red imprints of Matt’s thumbs. The shape of them was perfect. He traced the bruises with his own fingers, a echo of the touch. Lower, on the inside of his thighs, the skin was tender. He turned, looking over his shoulder at his reflection. A faint, red abrasion marked his shoulder blade from the boathouse wall. Proof.
He didn’t shower. He couldn’t bear to wash it away yet. Instead, he pulled on a pair of soft sweatpants and a t-shirt. He crawled into the bed that was too small, in the room that was a museum.
He picked up his phone. The screen was dark. No notifications. He opened his messages. The last one from Matt was just the address of the boathouse. He stared at it. His thumb hovered over the keypad.
He typed: I’m home. He deleted it.
He typed: Are you? He deleted it.
He typed: I can still feel you. He stared at the words, raw and true and dangerous. His finger hovered over the send button. The risk was a physical thing, a cold coil in his stomach.
Downstairs, he heard his father’s laugh, a low, comfortable rumble. A sound from a world where his son was straight, and good, and uncomplicated.
James deleted the message. He powered off the phone. He placed it on the nightstand, screen down.
He lay in the dark, the bruises on his hips throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He brought his wrist to his nose. Beneath the sharp, clean scent of his father’s cologne, if he breathed deep enough, he could still smell it. Salt. Skin. Matt.
He closed his eyes. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the window in its frame. It sounded like the groan of rope against a weathered piling. It sounded like the sea, trying to get in.