Work Text:
DISCLAIMER: QAF and its characters are the sole property of Showtime and Cowlip Productions. No copyright infringement is intended.
This is NOT to make light of our current situation, but this ficlet was inspired by it.
Winter, 2020 - Pittsburgh
I have never been a 'touchy-feely' type, but I guess I've always been a tactile person. Growing up, it was the sting of my father's hand against my cheek whenever he felt I wasn't good enough for him, or whenever I tried to stand up to him. Or maybe - on extremely rare occasions - the sweetness and texture of a bite of chocolate-chocolate-chip cake that slid down my throat on my birthday, made by my mother in one of her few sober moments.
Later, it was the feeling of a cool glass of Beam in my hand. The softness of a man's lips, or the roughness of a stubbled cheek as we kissed. The stroking and slapping of sweaty flesh against flesh in the Baths or the backroom, or the clasping of hands at the beginning of a business meeting, instantly telling me if this person was confident or weak. The twirling of a pen around my fingers as I sat down at my desk and thought about the next ad campaign I would ingeniously create to watch yet another, otherwise useless item explode in popularity soon afterward.
It was the squeeze-like vice Deb always greeted me with - unless in her eyes, at least, I had been an asshole, in which case the breath-stealing embrace transformed into a whack against the side of my head. Or the warm feelings of love that rush through me even to this day whenever I hold my Sonny Boy in a hug, because now he's all grown up and too heavy to lift. Or the feel of a joint between my fingers as I inhaled it, soothing the anxious thoughts that most never know I express internally to myself. Or the hard, smooth texture of the loft's stainless appliances, contrasted with the absurd softness of my 1,000-thread, Egyptian cotton sheets on my bed.
It was the wetness that covered my cheeks as I walked down Liberty Avenue with fat snowflakes assaulting my face, the luxurious feel of cashmere against my neck as I wound my scarf around me to try and keep myself warm.
It was the whispery softness of white, warm sand that greeted my bare feet as I walked along the beach at Ibiza. It was the skin-tight feeling of my leather pants encasing my cock and muscular legs honed by endless nights at the gym as I danced to the pulsating beat of the music at Babylon. Or the relish of threading my fingers through downy blonde, sunshiny hair splayed upon a bed pillow on a sleepy Sunday morning.
Yes, I have always been a tactile person. But never so much as I when I see Justin walking through airport security, and he drops his carry-on beside me so I can sweep him up into a gut-wrenching embrace that seems to last an eternity. The past eight months have been a living hell for me. For us. But now, feeling the steady cadence of his heartbeat against my chest as I hold him tightly in my arms, I breathe in his familiar scent like a warm, soothing blanket pouring over me, and suddenly it's heaven.