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Teoman could stare at his back all day.
The specific hunch of it—making himself small, folding where he should feel safe—that sloped into the rest of Kutay’s body. The gentle breaths he could only hear if the room itself stopped breathing. The pulse that raged under all of it, like even sleep wasn’t somewhere he could let his guard down.
Despite the generous space that he’d been offered, Kutay had found a way to cast himself to the edge of the pretty-spacious mattress. Teoman had a hard time trying not to feel insulted, assuring himself that it wasn’t his fault or doing at all. Still, he pitied the sight more than he felt guilty over the way Kutay’s pale forearm dangled so uncomfortably from the side, his fingers twitching in what Teoman could only assume was the cold of his room.
Only when Kutay’s shoulders jerked did Teoman feel it too: how cool it had gotten all of a sudden.
Not even an hour earlier, the same temperature was almost too hot—not even an hour earlier, Teoman had woken from a nightmare. The memory of what it was was nearly lost, overridden by his sole-aching walk to Kutay’s home, and he honestly preferred it that way. The one thing that lingered—that Teoman could still feel and was visibly bothered by—was a warm dampness by the spot between his neck and jaw: probably tears that his ever-so-anxious friend had neglected in favour of… other things.
Even though the sting of warm saltwater meeting cold air forced Teoman to jerk against all efforts to resist, he felt a heat of embarrassment invade his body at the same time.
Like a fever from his chest, the sensation took its sweet time making Teoman feel it in every part of his body. In his tightening neck that refused to swallow and in his locked jaw.
He hadn’t seen it as much as he’d felt it. He had been too far gone to remember anything he might’ve heard.
Clothes were pried from his body and sheets from his bed and before he could’ve screamed at and shoved his helping friend away, he’d found himself grabbing his wrist and asking for him to stay when he’d turned to leave.
Not demanding, like he was used to—asking. Despite knowing that Kutay wouldn’t have refused either way.
That was the second most embarrassing part, he guessed. After a humiliation so large—of being desperate, needing to be helped like a belly-up dog—Teoman had made himself smaller than he had already been. It must’ve been sheer luck that Kutay hadn’t once looked at him like he wanted to hurt him. And it could only have been sheer luck how, after he’d settled down next to Teoman, Kutay seemed not to want to fall asleep until he had.
It’s just that in that moment, even with his chest exposed and somebody else’s hands where he would rather die than let his family see, Teoman couldn’t focus on his body when his thoughts moved from the terror that had woken him up to the care he was being given. Sure, he was a demanding guy—but his demands had never been this intimate. His demands had never been to have his needs met or be tended to when he was already down. At least not to friends. By default, he’d been the type to see himself as the provider—the irreplaceable one, partner wrapped around his finger. He’d only imagined himself giving whatever he could before getting the world in return until now.
Though whatever affection he thought came with Kutay’s gestures seemed to numb him and rock him asleep, even after distance separated them in the bed.
It was belittling thinking about it now, just as it was meant to be. The heat of humiliation intensified to an unbearable degree as it dawned on him. Teoman sucked in a breath through his teeth and took a moment to look away before he exploded at the wrong time.
That small thing that curled and turned away from Teoman must’ve been thinking himself so much better than him now, right?
The fever gathered in his gut, curdling into something disgusting—and safe and familiar.
What air had been stolen from his lungs returned on the condition that he breathe deep and slow, heavy yet not too loud so as not to wake who his fingers curled in preparation to harm.
It wouldn’t be anything big. It was too late for that. It’d make a fuss and the message he wanted to get across would be harsher than he would like.
Maybe he’d shove him—or pinch him, or shake him, or just give him a good scare before banishing him. His options were boundless when it came to provocation. Then again, it wasn’t like Kutay hadn’t provoked him first, right? This was less provocation from Teoman’s end and more self-defence against something bad. Something very, very bad. What kind of bad, he didn’t know—if it made him feel hot and sick, ‘bad’ didn’t need an explanation.
His hand ghosted barely above a soft spot nestled next to Kutay’s windpipe. But as surely as the heat of violation burned in him, something else in him faltered—long enough for Kutay to turn around before Teoman could act on whatever violent instinct beat the others to it.
Kutay’s shoulder gently pressed down Teoman’s other, resting hand into the mattress, warm and slight breaths tickling the hair on his forearm. And like frost giving way, the tension in Teoman’s braced fingers melted.
His eyes shifted down to observe the face he could finally see, fixating on the uncomfortable crinkle of his brows, then moving to his hesitantly-parted lips. Pressing his own lips together, Teoman gulped as a pleasant coolness returned to his body and finally dried the bothersome tears at his neck with the back of his hand.
It was refreshing to feel his consciousness returning while Kutay’s shoulder, still pinning Teoman’s hand, kept him grounded. As heavy as Kutay’s body was, though, there was a softness to it—not a softness of weight, but the silhouette of someone who was put on the world to embrace and be held onto. Which was exactly the urge that overcame the blond, much to his frustration. He told himself that it wasn’t an impulse from inside him, but just a part of Kutay’s weird, gentle (was that the right word for someone his age?) allure.
Besides, Kutay just had things about him that were irresistible as a fact of life. If you studied Kutay for as long as Teoman had—studied how soft his skin felt where, how his fingers curled in shyness, how he breathed in safe arms, how his voice disappeared into itself when it was dark and quiet—then you wouldn’t think to question Teoman for a second. Not his feelings, nor for the way he carefully removed his hand from under Kutay’s body to lie down facing him.
It felt natural pulling him closer and sensing his body yield to his request, so that’s all it had to be: natural.
It was only natural to lie so close to his friend that they were almost flush, creating their own warmth between them. It was only natural to let his hand move to Kutay’s hair and let his fingers take root in it, only to pull, softly, tilting his head back—ignoring Kutay’s unconscious sigh of surprise—to expose his collar and rest his own head on it. It was only natural to not flinch when Kutay’s arm stretched lethargically and found an awkward area between Teoman’s neck and shoulder to rest.
The bite of Kutay’s collarbone under Teoman’s chin was nothing in comparison to the way his body cushioned Teoman so completely he felt it even where there was nothing to feel, something fuzzy making up the difference. Teoman didn’t have the will or energy to decide what exactly it was—it could’ve been discomfort or, in an ideal world, feeling wanted.
But between wanting to push it aside for a night and the urge to flee, unwanted tears had found a crack to slip through. In an effort to bite them back, Teoman’s lip trembled, and instead of helping his cause, he made the quietest sound that someone not built for quiet could manage.
This wouldn’t be the last time his body betrayed him, of course. Like he was preparing to fight himself, Teoman’s fists clenched and unclenched repeatedly, leaving behind faint red crescents on his palms.
Was this his undoing? Really? All it had taken was a body that was too warm and too close and too willing.
Something less than a beating—he’d braved many of those—made him sicker than all the bruises in the world could. Wasn’t that crazy? Wasn’t that weird?
How wise would it be if he reached for Kutay’s neck and got it over with?
… If it hadn’t left a bitter aftertaste, even Teoman wouldn’t have heard his own strangled weep—and yet.
The arms around him tightened. The hand next to his neck moved to the back. Kutay wanted to break Teoman’s bones before he could even try.
“Are you crying?” It was thanks to the room being otherwise dead-silent that Teoman could make out what Kutay was saying. He sounded genuine, but the question was stupid.
Teoman, for once, let silence stretch.
It was his turn to decide whether it would stay this way. No one commanded him otherwise, so it would. He sniffled once, not again, and stayed still, letting his quivering shoulders give his decision away.
He felt the pillow he’d made out of Kutay’s body shift under him when Kutay lifted his head to rest his chin on Teoman’s head to create a slightly more comfortable (but still tangled and weird) arrangement for the pair. At the same moment that he felt Kutay exhale over his hair, Teoman, despite his lumpy throat, gave his own shaky sigh of contentment—at the improved position and Kutay’s disinterest in pushing further.
Tentatively stroking Teoman’s hair and lowering his mouth to the top of his head, Kutay, through his sleep, muttered something indiscernible.
Though he knew he probably wouldn’t get a response, Teoman asked through a lazy smile, “Man, what the hell are you saying?”
To his surprise (and, to be honest, a little bit of his amusement), what started as more incomprehensible noises dissolved into a stretched-out “nice…”
Teoman went quiet for a moment. His shoulders had gotten lazy, letting Kutay’s chest bear the weight of his fingers against them.
Nice. Sure. It could be nicer, but— okay.
“Idiot.”