Disclaimer: I own all characters thus they are copyrighted to me. Any resemblance to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental. This story is not to be copied or posted elsewhere without permission from the author. If you are underage or find man/man material offensive stop reading now. This is sexually explicit but plot-heavy.
This story is a quick one shot I wrote while taking a break from my other story "The Man of My Dreams" which can be found under the high school section on Nifty and both this story, "MOMD," and all my subsequent stories will also be found on the website The Rainbow Community Writing Project, which is another wonderful resource.
Any and all feedback positive and negative is welcome and requested at firstname.lastname@example.org. I will respond to all e-mails. Thanks in advance!
"Paul!" Ian cried in shock turned to a mix of resentment and delight as his boyfriend walked through the door. Before he could express his worry or anger, Ian was quickly silenced by his love's firm lips crashing into his own. A familiar wave of euphoria washed over Ian's melting body and he even almost managed to forget the hurt and anxiety that plagued him that week when he tasted Paul's signature mint chap stick. His lover's scent was unfamiliar though, his usual musk mixed with a hint of cedar. He was drawn, gasping out of his reverie as Paul ended their embrace and as air began to refill his refill his lungs, it was followed by the memories of the ordeals his man caused. He wanted to work on not becoming so intoxicated by Paul.
Ian had been surprised when Paul walked into his apartment and back into his life that gloomy Thursday afternoon. It was the end of summer, the yellow, red, and brown leaves already being carried to the ground by chilly winds, the sun already had retreated behind the clouds, the heavy coats already coming out from the back of the closet spewing the stench of mothballs with them. It seemed, too, the end of their engagement before Paul arrived in his unanticipated fashion. The sun had started setting outside Ian's apartment and his windows were open to the autumn cold, but he didn't care. That was the way Paul liked to spend their evenings together. Start with the windows wide open as the sun started to set and let in the cold that would freeze all of Ian's carefully tended indoor plants and end up being driven into one another's arms underneath the blankets on Ian's bed, snuggling closer in through the night to escape the chill. But although he called and e-mailed his apologies and did everything to track Paul down short of showing up at his work that week, Ian hadn't seen him since a distracted Paul left him in his apartment before dawn Sunday morning or heard from him since a gruff and short and barely audible phone call Monday night, and it seemed that he would have to spend yet another cold lonely night without his love.
Ian was sure that the sudden leap in his heart from a suffering, festering depression to a jubilant, devoted love was doing nothing to help his attempts to wean himself off of his antidepressants, but at this moment as Paul shut the door and wordlessly led him back to his bedroom, Ian could not help but forgive him for the emotional shock and every tribulation inflicted. And when it came to loving Paul, Ian was sure there was nothing he could do to keep from loving him wholly and purely and innocently and he was doubly sure this was not healthy, but he forgave Paul as he always had and he sighed because he knew he always would.
Ian had always been ashamed of his wood-walled garden-level apartment, thinking it nothing more than a glorified coffin, but felt better about it after that first night when Paul had cheerfully called it cozy. Paul was like that, always surprising Ian with random one-word fits of exuberant childlike appreciation, breaking his usually calm and quiet facade, and Ian always appreciated that in turn, since it amused him to see such a big, muscled ex-football player spouting an extensive vocabulary. Paul always had an adjective that made Ian wonder if he had a word-a-day calendar tucked into his coat. Ian framed against the first sunset they watched together on a hilltop was "exquisite." Their first kiss under a streetlight was "divine." Ian, as he lay asleep bathed in the early morning rays of light, was "stunning." And although the diamond and sapphire engagement ring they had seen while shopping was only simply "beautiful," Ian sometimes suspected that Paul would someday soon shyly go down on one knee and present it to him.
But Paul was worshipfully silent now as the setting sun like a giant candle flooded Ian's bedroom with a dying orange light that was swallowed by his large soulful brown eyes and was reflected back out of the depths in a glint. Those hypnotic orbs froze Ian to his spot on the bed and as he watched the setting sun cast different shadows on his love''s angled face, he idly wondered when they had shed their layers of clothing. Thinking it a sacrilege to break the reverent silence, Ian waited an ungodly amount of time before entreating some secret confession with his strained voice, "Where have you been?"
Paul immediately cast away his luminous eyes and Ian regretted his silly question the moment it left his lips. Slowly but surely, Paul placed a hand on Ian's thigh and ran it up his body evoking a shudder. His hand came to rest on Ian's shoulder and pushed him down to the bed, his other hand gently cupping his dove's head tenderly giving it support on its slow descent.
"I'm sorry," Paul whispered, the warm moisture from his breath brushing Ian's lips before it was replaced by another warm, full kiss. Paul's sweet, gentle tongue softly stroked across Ian's lips methodically pleading for entrance, which was granted after a few heart-stopping moments. His request granted Paul lightly glanced Ian's tongue before moving to discover the rest of Ian's mouth. Ian released a muffled moan into Paul, his erection throbbing against Paul's chiseled thigh, from feeling Paul's hard body pressing him deep into the bed with his full weight for the first time. Usually Paul was so gentle and thoughtful, but he was quickly becoming the aggressive carefree lover Ian only sometimes wished for.
Paul started to move his body over his Ian's, gliding in some places and grinding in some others and always creating such perfectly sweet harmonies with their skin. But Ian did not want to just blindly abandon his query. Ian slid away and again he asked, "Where have you been?" more forcefully now demanding the explanation he was owed.
And this time, Paul looked deeply in his eyes, asking him to stop asking before whispering a heartfelt "I'm sorry." And this time, Paul held his wrists and compelled Ian to remain flat on the bed and he nibbled and bit at Ian's ear eliciting the softest gasps and moans and whimpers. And when Paul moved to bite on Ian's lower lip, Ian was silent save for a muffled cry. And when Paul moved to nip and bite his way down Ian's neck to a large, tender and pert nipple, Ian started to buck uncontrollably underneath him.
But as persistent as Paul was, Ian would not be deterred. Sitting up fully, Ian moved to the side of the bed, turning his back on the man who held his heart in his hands.
"Where were you?" Ian now demanded emphasizing every word and trying to sound cold, but only succeeding in keeping the quaver in his voice to a minimum.
And now with his own exasperated sigh, Paul came up close behind Ian, who was ready to flinch away. But Paul only held him from behind and brought his lips back to Ian's ear.
And he whispered, "I'm sorry I caused you to worry. But I was busy taking care of something very personal. I don't have the time to fully explain now, but know that I wished you had been beside me for it. None of that matters now though, I am trying to show you that what matters is me showing you just how much I love you while the moon is still out tonight." He sounded almost sorrowful, but was more talkative than he had been all evening and more eloquent than ever he usually was.
Paul led him back to again lie fully on the bed. And even before Paul's sweet puckered lips would receive his pulsing member Ian knew he would forgive; he would ask no penance. But it was a beautiful reparation watching Paul's lips slick and twist over his shaft. Paul knew every single curve and tick and trick to make Ian moan like a brazen whore and he was pulling every one at the same time.
As he lay there sighing and whimpering, Ian felt badly for questioning Paul's virtue. He thought himself so much more fragile now after his car accident two weeks ago, and that shamed him. He had no desire to be so wantonly reliant on Paul despite the knowledge that Paul's love and support came freely and without judgment. Paul was there for him then, first having his car towed the twenty miles home then holding a very shocked Ian through the night despite have a biomolecular chemistry test and an essay on Catherine Parr the next day at school. And Paul was here for him now demonstrating his unending love in a beautiful display between his legs. It was a stunning picture watching Paul's fluid and saliva-soaked face bobbing dutifully on his manhood and working his balls. Ian tried to push the negativity from his mind. He was still trying to work on that. But he still couldn't help the twinge of sorrow he felt and did not know why.
Paul began to push Ian's legs apart and Paul rolled his eyes from the ceiling into his head and gasped at the wonderful sensation of Paul's tongue probing his entrance. As the skillful tongue darted in and out of him, Ian's mind worked to avoid overload recalling the way Paul had skipped classes that day after the crash, how Paul fed him in bed, and called the insurance company. And Ian was more in love than ever when the deliciousness of Paul's tongue was precisely replaced by first one, then two searching digits.
Ian's mind finally went blank as Paul positioned himself over him, his lubricated prize ready to start its thrusting. And as his angel delayed above him, Ian could again smell the breathtaking mix of musk and cedar on his man love.
The initial plunge brought with it a string of memories for Ian, and his mind again went to work overtime as he was flooded by every moment of their love since the first. Thrust. The first ice cream they shared, licking and lapping the mess from each other's mouths at the beach. Thrust. The first time Paul said "I love you" after just waking up in each other's arms to the sun's first rays. Thrust. Paul's eyes as they walked through the downtown shops and all their long future Christmases and fights and cozy nights by the fires reflected in the gleam of his eyes and the diamond sapphire engagement ring in the window.
Ian lost track of time as Paul's driving soldier left him a mumbling, muttering mess. Paul fucked him so gently and roughly and steadily and wildly that Ian was overwhelmed. Their lovemaking had never been as exquisite nor as luscious as it had been that night. And when they finally climaxed, first Paul with a grunt then Ian with a whimper, and collapsed into each other, their warm and drying mess a testament to their love, Ian had never felt more safe or secure. Paul lay gently on top of him, a satisfied lion shielding his mate from the cold and drew the blankets over them. The last thing Ian experienced before drifting into an exhausted sleep was the memory of when he'd first nervously asked if Paul would love him forever. Paul's response in the remembrance came at the same time as Paul's lips brushed on his chest and released one last whisper of "always." Ian couldn't wait to awaken happily in his lover's arms and tell him all his dreams.
Across town on the living room floor of what was no longer Paul's apartment, Lou McGill took a break from packing some books, pictures, and a dusty television set to exhale the frustrations of his week. He was burying his son today. On a late and dreary autumn Friday afternoon he would inter his firstborn into the earth. Over Sunday dinner he grinned nervously when he told his son he was getting remarried to Delia who was a waitress at the corner diner since she quit school and his son told him he was gay. He retreated to his bedroom to find answers in the bottom of the bottle of twelve-year-old scotch he kept in his sock drawer. By Monday night, a hung over Lou had decided he would rather accept his flesh and blood than condemn an abomination and have his son stand by his side at his wedding. But Paul crashed his car into a large oak tree at 7:58 pm on Monday, and on Tuesday he was stabilized but brain-dead. On Wednesday, Lou cried for the first time since his son was born twenty-three years ago when he picked out a cedar and copper coffin for his boy and again when he said his goodbyes before ending his life support. On Thursday was the wake, and Lou double-checked to make sure that everyone who was should have attended was there to see Paul's empty lifeless body.
Lou collected himself and returned to packing as quickly as he could manage. It was cold. He would not return to this space after he left it.
When the morning came, Ian would wake from strange and fantastical dreams to a cold, lonely bed. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he will look around his empty room remembering the velvet of Paul's lips brushing his chest as he whispered the word "always" and will pop a couple Prozac to chase away the dreams of cedar forests. There will be nothing left for him to do but draw the blankets tighter as he stares first at the dried bunch of roses Paul gave him for his birthday then at the phone, waiting for a call that wouldn't come. And he will sit with insular sheets round his still-shivering shoulders and wait for the next time he sees his love so he could grant a perpetual forgiveness with haunted doleful eyes and a faithful heart that only breaks when he is alone.