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Stephen smells awful, like asparagus and sweat with the unmistakable slight hint of Fabuloso.
He checks his hair in the kitchen mirror for the third time in the last half hour. It’s flat still, too hat-tousled to take the shape he’d like it—no, needs it to have.
Joseph’s coming—Joseph, with his immaculate hair and impeccable style and the aura of someone who just has his shit together despite the world around him. It’s intimidating—it drives Stephen up a wall with anxiety and inferiority and awe. Every second he spends thinking about Joseph makes him feel queasy, like there’s some horrific feeling he’s shoving down into a deep, dark pit.
It’s something intense, something so odd and uncomfortable that he dares not to think about it—and yet the feeling is still there, consuming Stephen from the inside every second of every day.. While he’s awake, or failing to sleep, or any other moment in-between, he’s thinking—daydreaming, even—about Joseph. It’s just something about him, the way that he simply exists , that Stephen can’t quite get over—something that feeds that gnawing cavity inside him and makes it ever greater.
Stephen’s hands finish their futile efforts with his hair and hover down to his cheeks, feeling the still-alien scratch of thick stubble against his fingertips. Joseph said he liked it a few days ago—said he thought it made Stephen look “rugged” and “handsome.” Stephen’s cheeks flush at the memory, his fingers feeling the sudden warmth as they do another pass-over.
Handsome. The word floats in his mind, an unwelcome target of obsession as of late. He’d spent thirty minutes staring in the mirror after coming home that night, just trying to imagine what it looked like for Joseph—how the Stephen seen through his eyes could be so foreign.
The doorbell rings, shrill and out of tune.
He’s not ready, he’s just not ready—Joseph’s perfectly on time like always, but Stephen just needs another minute to sort himself out. His panicked breaths are like a horrible drumbeat, shallow and unhelpful and unsteadying as he tries to find a balance.
Stephen stumbles to the door, one hand pressed firmly against his chest in an attempt to keep himself grounded as the other awkwardly fumbles with his keyring. His hand is slick with sweat and panic, and the little bronze key Dominique gave him is just so small and slippery. He can’t keep Joseph waiting—can’t keep up this dreadful anticipation or else he’ll pass out himself.
“Open the door, bitch,” Joseph orders, his voice muffled by the metal between them.
Joseph hits the doorbell again, the awful tone like a sour guitar note reverberating inside Stephen’s skull. He’s rushing now, trying each key he can with shaky hands until it finally accepts one with a satisfying click. The turn of the lock is an instant release, a catharsis of all the built-up apprehension as Stephen opens the back door to-
"You look awful."
A wave of nausea climbs over Stephen, his stomach lurching as he tries to shove all the sudden feelings down beneath the surface.
Standing in front of him is Joseph, his neck craned as he eyes Stephen up and down with a curious expression—he always looked so odd, as if he was studying Stephen like a scientist would study a specimen. Hollie once joked that Joseph was just a consummate people-watcher, but for Stephen it felt like something more… personal, like he was a once-in-a-lifetime case study. Why didn’t he want to disappoint?
"Did you finish everything? I don’t want to wait out here.”
Stephen runs through his checklist as if he hasn’t done it three times already—floors mopped, grill cleaned, food restocked. He’d finished everything early to give himself time to agonize over his appearance in the mirror in the vain hope of impressing Joseph.
Nodding, Stephen steps out into the tight alleyway with Joseph before turning to lock the backdoor behind him. He should probably say something.
“How was the walk here?”
Joseph hates small talk. Stephen can see it plainly written on Joseph’s face—the slight eye roll, the light huff as he finds something boring to say in response.
“Boring.”
Too short—Stephen’s starting out on the wrong note already. His breath is coming in short again as he tries to center himself and not lose his cool, not embarrass himself in front of Joseph. He has to be the perfect conversationalist, has to match how easy it seems to be for Joseph to say something and make it sound riveting.
“Stop moping around—it’s going to rain soon,” interrupts Joseph, already starting to quickly walk to the end of the alley. “Though guessing by your clothes, you probably wouldn’t mind.”
Joseph chuckles softly—a joke’s a good sign, hopefully. The tension in Stephen’s shoulders dissipates, replaced with a growing gnaw in his stomach as he fixates on Joseph’s laugh—how soft and intimate it feels, like it’s something delicate shared with him and him alone. It’s just so deep and quiet, enough to make Stephen feel a low rumble in his stomach the rare times he gets to hear it. He wants to hear it again.
Jogging, Stephen catches up to Joseph and follows him out, a sudden shiver running along his body as he leaves the protection of the backstreet. This t-shirt wasn’t going to cut it for this chilly wind—he should’ve read the forecast earlier, but instead he’d spent too much time in front of the bathroom mirror staring.
Stephen folds his arms tightly as he follows behind Joseph, doing his best not to stare too much at the man in front of him… and yet he is powerless to resist. His mind wanders, focusing on how long Joseph must’ve spent ironing his jacket to get it to look so perfect, or just admiring the clean lines on the back of Joseph’s head—he must’ve just gotten a haircut. It was nice, clean—fluffy still, with tight curls packed close to his head as a perfect frame for his face.
Stephen’s eyes trail down, admiring the fit of Joseph’s faded jeans—how did he make sure they were the right size each time? He thinks of how hard it must be to be so stylish, so well put together and feels his stomach knot like a pretzel in… envy? He wants to know that feeling, to have it be his reality, but it’s… it’s something about how Joseph has it.
Another wave of nausea washes over Stephen. His mind is racing now, imagining all the meticulous steps involved in finding a pair of good jeans—the research, the maintenance, the trying on. Stephen imagines Joseph in a dressing room, slowly pulling up a pair of perfectly-fit Levi’s up his well-shaped legs and then over his—
Stephen squashes the thought down into the cavity with all the others.
Joseph slows down to walk beside Stephen, looking him up and down with a curious expression before smirking.
“Too much of a cheapskate for a jacket? Or do you just really like showing off those arms of yours?”
Stephen flushes painfully, his upper body burning hot enough to make the wind feel like nothing on his exposed skin.
Another laugh from Joseph. Stephen stares as Joseph folds out of his jacket before he offers it to him.
“Oh, I-“ Stephen begins to protest.
“Stop whining like a little bitch and put on the damn jacket,” Joseph huffs.
He thrusts the jacket out impatiently at Stephen, as if he’s wasting precious time. Stephen gingerly accepts the offer, the tan canvas feeling oddly delicate in his rough hands.
Draping it over his shoulders, Stephen does his best to not stretch out the size-too-small jacket. His palms are clammy as he tries to focus on just walking forward, but his mind races, now hyper-aware of every grease spot and sweat stain plastered to his body. The idea of him ruining the jacket, of contaminating it, is a searing brand on his mind, a constant knot in his stomach.
Stephen takes a deep breath to clear his head—and yet notes of thick honey and resin drown out his thoughts as he takes in the odor of Joseph’s cologne on the jacket.
It’s intoxicating, like the sweet scent is weighing down his mind and tethering it to more thoughts of Joseph, of how he smells. Stephen imagines himself wrapped in Joseph’s clothes and sheets and body and-
He can’t feel this way, he doesn’t feel this way—he has to be just jealous and his want is simply for what Joseph has and not what Joseph is. It’s the only thing that makes sense, the only solution that’s nice and tidy and clean—the way he wants it to be. Stephen feels the pit inside him grow with a sickening lurch as he swallows down his messy thoughts as best he can.
An uneasy quiet—a feeling he hasn’t felt in ages, unnatural and temporary as it is.
Joseph’s talking about the new Yamaha release, soft but enthusiastic as the occasional car passes them by. The moments like this, when Stephen’s simply enjoying Joseph’s company, are nice.
If only his mind would let him stay in those moments.
Sneaky Dee’s is crowded by the time they reach it—even on a late Monday night, the colorful throng of college kids and tired clubbers has flooded the restaurant like a thick liquid. An unwiped booth in a back corner is their saving grace, crumb-covered but mercifully free of anyone to bother them.
The nachos are a little too cold, the cheese scalding hot, but the sensory experience is thankfully uncomfortable enough to distract Stephen from the gradual return of his overthinking.
“And you said Reign of Fire ? It’s not even a good movie.”
“Christian Bale is a great lead in that one—you’ve got to be shitting me.”
“Fine, he was kind of cute in that one. Good actor though? No.”
“Yeah, but what about American Psycho? The Machinist—you have to like those!”
Stephen’s arms shoot out to accentuate his point as he laughs, knocking over the bowl of queso onto himself.
“FUCK!”
The whole corner of the restaurant turns to stare at Stephen in unison as he panics, hands shaking as he attempts to futilely wipe globs of cheese off Joseph’s jacket. It was so clean, it was so nice and immaculate and ironed and of course he just had to ruin it, had to mess it all up with this awful cheese that didn’t even taste that good, and he-
Another pair of hands hold him down in his seat and dabs at his shirt—Joseph’s quietly doing his best to help clean Stephen up.
“Your jacket…” Stephen says dejectedly, trailing off as he tries to keep himself calm.
“You’re so fucking stupid, Stephen,” Joseph sighs, shaking his head, “it’s just a jacket. Is your hand okay?”
His hand stings, flush with blood and heat and pain, and the sensation blooms over his entire body–Stephen can barely begin to formulate an answer before a rogue wave of emotion washes over him, intense and disorienting and physical. The touch of Joseph’s steadying hand against his shoulder burns ice-hot, the stares of all the other patrons dig holes in his skin, the rhythmic press of Joseph’s napkin feels like it’ll knead him into a dough, and it’s just all too much.
And as quickly as the feeling overtakes him, it subsides—Joseph scoots back to his side of the booth, the tables around them turn their painful focus elsewhere, and Stephen feels his head settle down back onto his shoulders.
…he needs a drink.
“Heineken, please.”
“Hot toddy.”
Stephen downs the bottle in one go, his hand shaking as his throat burns. It doesn’t quench the queasy feeling of his stomach doing somersaults, but it does give him something else to focus on—something other than how horrible this night out with Joseph is going.
“Drunk,” Joseph chimes in between delicate sips of his hot toddy.
Stephen feels the horrible drumbeat of his heart against his ribcage—it’s hard and fast and irregular, as if it was screaming at him to do something, anything to make it quiet down. His feet feel numb, his hands clammy and cold, the cavity inside him roiling with nauseating waves.
Stephen’s right hand painfully grips his knee as he does his best to look unbothered for Joseph. He’s pretty sure he’s failing—the trickling sweatbeads and the way he’s gritting his teeth are dead giveaways.
And yet Joseph is simply staring at him with half-lidded eyes, his gaze wandering up and down and all-around Stephen—he’s smiling softly, as if he’s… having fun?
Somehow, the thought of Stephen being entertaining—of being someone Joseph enjoys—is even harder for him to bear. His vision thins, a tight circle focused around Joseph’s soft hands gently surrounding his mug—Stephen wonders how it would feel to have one of those hands in his, soft and warm and strong, or how it would feel to have one hand gently pawing at his chest hair as the other slowly descended down his back to—
He needs another drink—anything to wash down the taste of the words he knows he can’t say climbing up his throat. He scans the restaurant around them, unable to find their server.
“Can I?”
Stephen points an unsteady finger at the hot toddy.
Joseph rolls his eyes before he smirks.
“As I said, drunk.”
Joseph slides over the mug before resting his head on top of his hands as he observes Stephen—as if he was eagerly watching an interesting experiment before him.
Stephen does his best to steady the cup in his hands, trembling slightly under the gaze of Joseph—he hadn’t prepared himself to be stared at like this. The hot toddy is warm and honey-sweet and soothing, pushing everything he couldn’t keep from saying back down into the cavity.
Stephen shivers—he’s lightheaded and a little fizzy, like a can of soda shaken before opening. He tries not to think of how the taste of honey is so similar to the smell of Joseph’s jacket, how he just touched his lips where Joseph’s were just a minute earlier, how he’s having trouble keeping his eyes from wandering up to Joseph’s mouth.
It’s so hard not to stare, to trace where Joseph’s mustache hangs over his Cupid’s bow, to imagine how Joseph’s lips would feel softly pressed against his own.
Stephen takes another sip of the hot toddy and hopes Joseph didn’t notice the way he couldn’t keep his eyes off him—and mercifully, Joseph says nothing, only a soft smile betraying his thoughts.
Another shiver—Stephen wonders if the alcohol has already hit him, or something else has instead.
The walk to Joseph’s is thankfully less windy—still far too cool for a summer night, but bundling himself in his borrowed jacket is enough for Stephen.
He wonders how Joseph is managing. His button-up can’t be that thick, and yet he’s not said a word of complaint since—even refused the jacket when offered right as they left Sneaky Dee’s.
Stephen thinks to ask as they enter Joseph’s house, but Joseph’s already impatiently bounding up the steps to his room by the time Stephen can muster up the words to question him.
Stephen considers following immediately, but nabs a shot glass and a bottle of some cheap whiskey from the kitchen after hanging up Joseph’s cheese-encrusted coat—he might need more than just the Heineken in his system for this recording session.
When Stephen finally makes the brave decision to join Joseph, he finds Joseph already absorbed in opening his fifteen different audio programs in preparation. Stephen sighs, pouring himself a bit of whiskey as he sits in the office chair next to Joseph. It burns—smokey and slightly sweet—but it’s a great distraction from the way the whole room smells like resin and honey—like Joseph.
“You’re just going to make me slave away over the recording myself? While you drink my alcohol? In my room?”
Nodding, Stephen takes another shot—he feels fuzzy, like he isn’t sure where his body ends and the rest of the room begins. He fashions a wobbly smile for Joseph as before wheeling himself across the room, colliding with the computer desk with a slight thunk.
“Fucking drunk.”
Joseph grabs the bottle out of Stephen’s hands far too quickly for Stephen to react before drinking from it himself. Was he always this loose?
A single bead of whiskey rolls down the side of Joseph’s mouth, slowly working its way down his beard. Stephen feels dizzy as he watches, his head swimming with far too many thoughts.
Stephen likes Joseph’s beard—likes the way it frames his face, his mouth, his kissable lips. What would it feel like against Stephen’s skin—rough, like a coarse brush scratching against his chin as he presses kiss after kiss onto Joseph’s handsome, handsome face? Soft and fluffy, as if he was rubbing up against a honey-scented cloud?
Stephen does his best to push down the thoughts, to keep them trapped deep inside that cavity he’s been putting everything else into for the entire night—it’s a losing battle. He’s running out of space to keep everything hidden inside, running out of pieces of himself that aren’t getting secreted away for how they obsess over Joseph.
He’s just…
He’s just fucking tired.
It’s the only sort of throughput that makes sense to him—all the anxiety, all the fear and awe and intensity, it has to be from that. It has to be why he’s having weird thoughts after a weird day and weird night out with a weird person who makes him feel weird.
Stephen stumbles to Joseph’s bed, his body heavy and his mind swimming. Why was he like this? He felt so excited and his nerves felt painfully awake and aware of every small detail, and yet all he wanted to do was close his eyes and get rid of this burning sensation that consumed him from the inside out.
An uncoordinated slump onto the well-laundered duvet—it was so soft, just like Stephen had come to expect any of Joseph’s belongings to be. Everything of his was so… immaculate, as if he had chosen it perfectly and taken perfect care of it. And yet here was Stephen, dirty and drunk and unput together, spreading his horrific smell of asparagus and old cheese and sweat over this wonderful bedspread. He was so filthy compared to Joseph, his body unwashed and his mind uncontrolled, a constant stream of thoughts about soiling Joseph’s things—of dirtying Joseph—on an endless parade inside his thick skull.
Another wave of nausea hits Stephen, and he burps up a horrible stench of something sickly-sweet.
The room is spinning slightly, a slow whirl of old movie posters and expensive equipment and forest green paint, a dizzying display of great taste that makes him sick with envy—it’s definitely envy, the way he’s been obsessed with everything Joseph has and is all night.
“If you get a stain on the bed, I will kill you."
It’s quiet—quieter than Joseph’s usual soft tone—like he doesn’t want anyone else to hear.
Stephen feels himself begin to sweat into the duvet, the sheer idea of ruining another item of Joseph’s like a jab to the stomach. He rolls over, the cavity inside him writhing from the strain as he peels off his dirty t-shirt, hoping to spare the bed of any unwelcome smells.
Joseph’s staring, his eyes roaming over Stephen less like a scientist and more like a big cat eyeing their next kill—Stephen feels vulnerable, exposed. Crimson explodes over his body, the cool breeze of the ceiling fan like ice against his naked torso.
Silently, Joseph walks over to Stephen, his eyes still traversing the expanse of Stephen’s exposed flesh in slow, agonizing arcs. One hand—soft, gentle—presses against Stephen’s breastbone, as if unsure about the idea. It’s warm, a fire against his own burning skin—Stephen shivers, his whole body trembling at the touch.
Joseph’s eyes match Stephen’s anxious glance, his eyebrows raised slightly as if to ask for permission—another hand finds Stephen’s love handle and Stephen is melting, a wax figure slowly losing form against the heat. He gives a pathetic attempt at a nod, all the thoughts, the want, the need he had been bottling up now beginning to fizz over and cloud his mind.
Long, delicate fingers slowly ghost over Stephen’s chest, drawing small circles in his body hair as they explore downwards—his skin seared with every probing touch. The hand on his side is firmer, pressing him closer to Joseph’s body as he desperately tries to stay present in the moment.
Joseph’s lips—they’re so close, so soft and supple and kissable. He can’t take his eyes off of them, his mind churning with thoughts about how wonderful they’d taste on his, how much he wants to feel them over and over again.
Stephen leans in, his lips meeting Joseph’s as his hands find their way to Joseph’s back. Joseph tastes like honey and whiskey and something burning, and it’s everything Stephen could have wanted. As their bodies clasp together—desperate, yearning—Stephen’s hand travels down Joseph’s lean body to cup his ass.
Joseph pushes Stephen back into the bed as they sloppily try to figure out how best to fit their mouths together, beard and stubble scratching against abraded skin. Stephen’s pinned to the mattress, his body and mind on fire as the man above him explores and prods and moves and overwhelms him.
And finally, Stephen lets the sweetness consume him.