"That Place Only We Know (Part 2)"
(Five Years Later)
The bookstore was cathedral-still, the hush beneath the ornate ceilings more reverent than expected for a Tuesday in Astoria. Shelves towered like pews around the gathered crowd. Reporters lined the back rows, notebooks open, microphones poised, waiting.
In the center of it all stood Nick.
Dressed in a slate-gray jacket over a simple black tee, his hair longer than it had once been, streaked with silver that made him look somehow both younger and more mythical, Nick smiled with that quiet grace.
"Mr. Morrisey, in A Bad Education, the narrator often contradicts himself, especially in the earlier chapters. Was that a structural choice or more of a reflection of his emotional instability?" a young woman with glasses and a soft voice asked.
Nick smiled, faintly. "I think emotional instability is a structure of its own, don't you? But yes, it was intentional. People rarely tell their stories in straight lines. We bend truth to protect ourselves, to make sense of the mess. And sometimes, to avoid it entirely. I wanted the reader to feel that tension between confession and concealment," he replied.
A second reporter leaned forward. He was older, with a notepad balanced on his knee. "Would you say the book is about guilt?"
Nick answered, patiently. "In part. But more than guilt, it's about consequence. We talk about shame too often in moral terms, but I think it's more powerful when it lingers in the quiet moments, in the what-ifs, the silences between people. Guilt may be the spark. But consequence...that's the fire."
A third reporter raised his arm, a younger man, sharply dressed. "There are passages that feel almost cinematic. Have there been talks about adapting the book for film?"
Nick laughed softly. "Talks, sure. Hollywood likes anything with controversy and expensive lighting. But the story's bones are made of silence and implication, and I'm not sure that always translates to a screen. Still, I'm listening. If the right hands come along, delicate, brave hands, I might let it go."
The first reporter shot back. "The narrator often mentions his younger companion's beauty in striking, almost reverent language. Was that meant to be read as romantic? Or simply aesthetic?"
Nick paused, thinking. "Aren't the two often the same when you're in love?" There was light laughter among the crowd. "Beauty, in this book, isn't decoration. It's a wound. The kind you stare at because it hurts too much to look away. That character...he isn't beautiful because he's flawless. He's beautiful because he survives, even when the world keeps trying to undo him."
The second reporter bounced off the first. "There's a sense of longing in the book that never quite resolves. Is that the point?"
Nick leaned back on his chair. "Longing is the point. We don't always get closure. We don't always get answers. Sometimes, we just get the ache. And sometimes, if we're lucky, we get to name it."
The reporters pause, scribbling notes, nodding. A murmur of appreciation rippled through the room. He'd answered them all with a warm, practiced wit, charming even the most cynical reviewer. The crowd was enraptured. The cameras loved him.
But then, inevitably, someone stood.
She didn't raise her voice. She didn't have to.
A woman, late thirties, neat bob, wire-framed glasses that flashed under the lights. A reporter from one of the more conservative publications, the kind that claimed not to cover gossip while salivating over it.
"I'd like to ask about the rumors," she said, voice cool and calculated. "That A Bad Education is, in fact, autobiographical. And that several of its more…controversial themes are drawn from real life. Specifically, the relationship between the husband and the younger lover, allegedly his biological son."
A hush. A shift in the room's temperature.
"And some," she continued, "have questioned whether such a story, if true, glorifies an immoral relationship. Given your platform, don't you think it's dangerous?"
Nick stood very still for a moment.
Then, slowly, he leaned into the microphone. His voice, when it came, was velvet and fire. "Let me tell you something about fiction," he said. "It is a mirror, yes, but it is also a wound. It shows what we are and what we hide. What we ache for and what we fear. And sometimes, if you're very lucky, it shows you who you used to be, so that you may forgive him."
The room had gone utterly still. Even the whirr of the lights seemed to have quieted.
"I didn't write A Bad Education to be safe. I didn't write it to soothe moral palates or polish my reputation. I wrote it because some stories haunt us until we name them. And yes, this story is personal. But it's not a confession. It's not a plea for forgiveness. It's a love letter." He paused. "Love isn't always kind. It isn't always appropriate. It doesn't always arrive when it should. But when it's real..." Suddenly, a flicker at the back of the room. Movement. The soft jingle of the bookstore bell.
Nick's eyes lifted.
And there he was.
Bobby.
Standing just inside the doorway. The sun from the window gilded his profile, older now, but still heartbreakingly beautiful. The same fierce soul. The same storm-battered heart.
Nick's breath caught.
Their eyes locked.
The noise faded.
And then, without fanfare, they smiled.
A quiet, aching smile before Nick finally resumed. "When it's real...it deserves to be remembered."
*
(Present Time)
Bobby woke to the sound of Nick breathing beside him.
For a moment, he lay still, unsure where he was. Then it came back to him in pieces: the emergency room. Adrian. The bathroom. Nick's touch. The movie. Falling asleep to the rise and fall of Nick's chest, the warmth of his skin, the calming beat of his heart.
Bobby blinked slowly, his eyes adjusting. Nick lay beside him, still asleep. One arm crooked behind his head. The other resting loosely over the pillow Bobby had pulled against his chest during the night. There was something impossibly boyish about Nick like this, unguarded, tousled, alive in the soft disarray of morning. Bobby swallowed and slowly sat up, careful not to wake him. He rubbed at his eyes, hair a messy halo, then made the mistake of glancing back.
Nick stirred, yawned, then looked at him. "Morning," he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.
Bobby froze. "Uh…yeah. Morning."
Nick pushed himself upright and scratched the back of his neck. He didn't seem fazed at all. Not by the bed, not by Bobby's awkward posture. "You snore," Nick said, stretching. "Like a baby rhino."
Bobby flushed. "I do not."
"You do. It's kind of endearing."
"Shut up," Bobby muttered, getting up. He suddenly became acutely aware of his tank top riding up slightly and pulled it down with a nervous tug.
Nick stood and padded across the room, barefoot, in nothing but his boxers. He moved with the calmness of someone who had made peace with his body, with mornings, with the awkward things most people fumbled through. "You hungry?" Nick asked over his shoulder.
Bobby hesitated. "Not really."
"Good. Let's go for a swim then."
Bobby blinked. "What?"
"Swim," Nick said simply, already rifling through his drawer for a pair of trunks. "It's perfect this time of morning. It'll wake us up." He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Bobby stammered, "I don't...uh, I…"
Nick turned around, completely unbothered, and in one clean movement dropped his boxers to step into a pair of swim shorts. Bobby caught a glimpse of his cock. Just a glimpse. And nearly choked on his breath.
He turned away so fast he smacked his hip into the edge of the dresser. "Jesus Christ," he muttered under his breath.
Nick just laughed softly.
Bobby gave him a look, cheeks aflame, but Nick only tossed him a pair of spare shorts and said, "Meet me downstairs," before jogging off, bare feet thudding softly down the stairs.
Bobby stood there a moment, still reeling. What the fuck was the problem? He had the guy's dick in his mouth, for Christ's sake. And then his chest suddenly felt light, strangely light, in a way he hadn't felt in years. Maybe ever. There was no heaviness. No guilt dragging behind their conversation. No complicated expectations twisting each touch into metaphor. No pain.
Just Nick, being Nick.
Effortless.
Bobby changed quickly and made his way downstairs. He passed the living room, where sunlight poured through the wide windows in a warm, buttery glow. The house, even with its silence, felt lived in again. Breathing.
"Let's go!" Nick's voice echoed from the porch.
He stepped outside to see Nick already bounding across the sand, sun cutting sharp against the curves of his bare back, hair catching the light like fire.
Bobby took a breath and followed.
The sand felt cool beneath him, the grains clinging stubbornly to his skin as he walked toward the water. The sky was a pale wash of blue, barely awake, and the ocean stretched out like liquid glass, its surface broken only by the slow, rhythmic breath of waves. Nick was already waist-deep in the surf, his body gleaming. He moved like he belonged there, like the sea knew his name.
Bobby stepped in.
The water kissed his ankles, then his shins, a sharp and sudden cold that stole his breath. He kept going, one step after another, his gaze never leaving Nick. When he reached him, they paused, chests rising and falling in tandem, breath forming pale ghosts.
Nick's hand came first.
Not sudden. Not forceful.
Just fingers skimming the water's surface, trailing toward Bobby. Bobby answered with a breath, and then their hands met beneath the surface, submerged where no one could see. Skin to skin. Warmth against cool water.
A secret touch.
Something holy.
They moved together, drifting deeper until the waves began to rock them. Nick turned, his body brushing against Bobby's, bare skin over bare skin, salt and sun between them. Their movements were slow, almost reverent. A dance without music. A nameless ritual. Nick's hands slid over Bobby's arms, fingertips tracing the hard lines of muscle with a tenderness that undid him. Bobby closed his eyes, tilting his head back as Nick's fingers moved to his collarbone, gently across his bruised neck, then down, light as breath, over his ribs, to the small hollow just beneath.
The water wrapped around them, hiding them in its embrace.
Bobby's hand found Nick's hip, and for a moment he held it there. Nick's breath slowed, and they both stilled. Their faces came close, lips parting with the weight of breath. Not touching, just there, suspended in the space somewhere between longing and restraint. Bobby could feel the tremble in Nick's breath, the unspoken ache of a kiss.
It was maddening.
Exquisite.
Bobby's fingers slid up Nick's spine, feeling each vertebra. Nick leaned forward, cheek brushing against Bobby's, the edge of his mouth grazing the corner of Bobby's lips like something unfinished.
Bobby's heart beat wildly. Not with fear, but with wonder.
His head dipped to Nick's shoulder, his forehead pressing against the hollow there as Nick's arms circled him slowly, carefully.
They floated like that.
And when they finally pulled away, it was not from discomfort, but because something in them knew it was enough. That for now, this ache, the beauty of almost, was more sacred than any act of taking.
Their eyes met.
Nick smiled first.
Bobby smiled back, eyes wet not from the sea.
Without a word, they turned and walked back to shore.
They returned to the house with damp hair and bare feet. Bobby lingered near the kitchen while Nick fetched two towels, tossing one across the counter to him without a word. The cotton was thick, rough with age. It smelled faintly of softener and sea air. Bobby dried his hair, ruffling it with the towel, watching as Nick leaned against the counter and ran his towel down his arms and chest, slow and methodical. Bobby's gaze caught on the trail of water winding down Nick's abdomen, disappearing into the soft waistband of his swim shorts.
He blinked, flushed, and turned away.
Nick finished first. Without waiting, he moved around the kitchen in that effortless, wordless way of his, opening the fridge, and pulling out eggs, bread, soft goat cheese wrapped in paper. He cracked eggs into a bowl, fork whisking through yellow yolk.
Then Bobby's voice, soft, almost unsure. "Can I help?" he asked.
Nick looked up, and the corners of his mouth lifted in that calm, steady smile that had begun to feel like an anchor in a world that used to churn. He nodded. Bobby moved forward, standing beside him, close but not too close. Nick handed him the cutting board. Bobby followed, his hands tentative at first, uncertain.
But Nick was patient.
He handed Bobby a ripe tomato. "Start with this," he said, gently. "Just thin slices. Like…this thin." He held up his fingers, spaced just right. "Careful."
Bobby took the knife, fingers wrapping awkwardly around the handle.
Nick watched, and after a moment, moved closer. "Here," he said, his voice low, reassuring. He reached for Bobby's hand, adjusting the grip slightly, his touch warm but firm. "Don't hold it like you're about to go into battle."
Bobby chuckled softly, but there was still a nervous edge.
Nick didn't move away. "Thumb back, fingers curled. Let the blade do the work."
Bobby tried again, this time slower, more focused. The first few slices were uneven, but then the rhythm came, imperfect but steady.
Nick turned back to the stove, flipping the bread in the pan. The smell of toasting sourdough filled the room. "You like avocado, right?" he asked. Bobby nodded, glancing up from his task. Nick handed him a halved avocado and a spoon. "Scoop it into that bowl. Then mash. Not pulverize, just enough to spread."
Bobby obeyed, moving more confidently now. The silence between them was easy, punctuated only by the gentle scrape of metal on ceramic, the sizzle of butter in the skillet.
After a while, Nick handed over the toasted bread. "Go on. Build it. Tomatoes, then avocado, then the egg on top."
Bobby assembled the snack like a student following sacred instruction. When he was done, he looked up, almost shyly.
Nick tilted his head, inspecting the plate. "Not bad," he said. "Looks edible."
Bobby gave him a mock glare. "Gee, thanks."
But inside, he was beaming. Bobby had never known it could feel like this, doing something so ordinary with someone, and feeling like every small gesture was a form of closeness. The kind that didn't need to be asked for, just lived.
They plated the food together, Bobby arranging the toast, Nick folding the eggs with a flourish, and sat at the small table by the window.
They ate in silence.
No need to fill the space with words. The clink of forks against plates, the sound of chewing, the occasional breath, these were enough.
Bobby glanced at Nick now and then, his eyes tracing the line of Nick's jaw, the faint stubble glinting in the light. Nick looked up once, their eyes meeting across the table. There was a softness there, a kind of peace that hadn't existed before. Bobby felt it like a balm, warming something deep inside him.
He took another bite of toast.
Minutes passed by before the last crumbs of bread sat uneaten between them, their plates mostly empty. Bobby leaned back in his chair, his feet resting on the rung beneath, arms lazily stretched out. Nick had finished eating first, as always, and now stood with his back turned, rinsing dishes under a quiet stream of water.
Bobby watched him. The easy way Nick moved. The curve of his shoulder, tensed and relaxed in the same breath. A muscle in his arm twitched as he scrubbed a stubborn bit of egg from the pan, and for a moment, Bobby let himself imagine leaning into him again, the way he had the night before, tucked beneath Nick's arm, safe, cradled in something that felt like belonging.
Then, as if aware of the weight behind Bobby's gaze, Nick spoke. "I think I'll go into town for a bit." His voice was casual, unburdened. He didn't look up.
Bobby nodded, trying not to let anything show. The last time Nick had said that, he hadn't offered anything more. He'd left alone. Quiet. Private. So now, he didn't ask. He folded his hands into his lap. Lowered his gaze. Pretended it didn't matter. That he didn't hear it.
Nick turned off the water, placed the pan upside down in the rack. He wiped his hands on a dishtowel and stood there for a moment, looking out the window.
Then he turned. "Go get dressed," he said, voice gentle but firm.
For a beat, Bobby didn't react. His mind couldn't quite register the words. Then, slowly, they bloomed inside him like heat rising from within, like light falling softly through stained glass. He blinked. A grin began to lift at the corners of his mouth before he could stop it.
"Really?"
Nick smirked. "Unless you want to stay here."
Bobby practically leapt from his chair. His bare feet padded quickly across the floor, up the stairs two at a time. In the bedroom, he pulled open drawers, throwing on the first pair of jeans he could find, a soft t-shirt, worn sneakers. He ran a brush through his hair and looked at himself in the mirror for the briefest of moments.
He didn't look like the same person who had arrived here days ago, heavy with sorrow and quiet rage. He seemed almost alive.
Downstairs, he heard Nick calling.
And with that, he was flying down the stairs, that same childish rush surging through him, the kind that makes you believe that something good might be waiting just beyond the bend.
The town was still waking up as if it, too, had spent the morning in silence and soft touches. The sky was cloudless, pale as sea glass, and the scent of the ocean followed them like a gentle ghost as they drove with the windows down.
Nick parked near the square, the car's engine ticking as it cooled. Bobby stepped out and stretched his arms, eyes flicking across the rows of pastel-painted storefronts. The town was the kind you'd see on postcards no one ever really sent, flower boxes on windowsills, hand-painted signs swinging in the breeze, and a single church bell that seemed to keep time for the whole world.
They walked side by side, their shadows following closely behind.
Nick stopped abruptly in front of a coffee shop, a narrow little place nestled between a bookstore and a barbershop, and ducked inside. Bobby lingered by the window, watching the old man on the corner feed crumbs to pigeons.
Nick returned with two large paper cups, the smell of dark roast wrapping around them like an embrace.
"You brought me here for coffee?" Bobby deadpanned as he took the cup, arching a brow.
Nick chuckled, then gave Bobby a playful nudge with his shoulder, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Come on, brat. Follow me."
They walked. Through the square. Past the old theatre with its rusted marquee and missing letters. Past the old dog lying in the sun like a stone warmed by time. Bobby didn't ask where they were going. He liked the sound of Nick's footsteps beside his. The soft rhythm of their silence.
Then they turned a corner.
And there it was.
Tucked between a laundromat and a forgotten antique shop was a storefront with faded red letters above the awning.
VIDEO VAULT.
The windows were plastered with vintage posters, Blade Runner, The Breakfast Club, Paris, Texas, My Own Private Idaho, all sun-bleached and curling at the edges. A cardboard cutout of Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's stood just inside, guarding the entrance.
Bobby stopped mid-step.
His mouth parted, and the heat of his coffee cooled instantly in his hands. "You're fucking kidding me," he whispered.
But Nick wasn't. He stood there beside him, quiet, pleased.
Inside, rows and rows of VHS and DVDs stacked on old wooden shelves, the kind worn soft by a thousand hands. There were handwritten notes stuck to the spines: "Jack's Pick," "Don't Return Scratched," "Romance That Won't Rot Your Brain."
It was a temple.
A relic.
And for Bobby, it was paradise.
"I bought it a few years ago," Nick said at last, his voice amused as he watched Bobby's wide-eyed wonder. "Figured you'd like it."
Bobby turned toward him, eyes lit with something brighter than gratitude. There was no sarcasm, no sly wit in his expression now, just awe, soft and unfiltered. The kind you can't fake.
The door chimed as Bobby stepped inside.
The store smelled like dust, old plastic, and warm wood. The kind of place that time forgot and chose to preserve instead. Bobby wandered in slowly, reverently, like someone stepping into a church. His fingers drifted along the cover's spines, trailing years of celluloid ghosts. He stopped in front of the "Classics" section, crouching down, and let out a breathless laugh.
"Jesus," he murmured, pulling out a battered copy of Persona. "This place is a fucking time capsule."
Nick leaned against one of the nearby shelves, sipping from his coffee cup. "A temple," he corrected. "Watch your mouth, pilgrim."
Bobby turned, grinning, and held up the Bergman film. "You know this movie nearly broke my brain the first time I saw it? I was sixteen. Had no idea what I was watching. But I couldn't stop."
Nick smirked. "You were sixteen and watching Bergman?"
Bobby gave a mock bow. "Gay. And depressed. What did you expect?"
Nick chuckled, crossing his arms. "Fair."
They moved slowly through the aisles. Bobby's eyes darted from title to title, his fingers flying now, grabbing films with the urgency of someone starved. Wings of Desire, Moonlight, Y Tu Mamá También, All About Eve. Each one prompted a soft exclamation, a memory, a story.
"I used to have this on repeat," Bobby said, waving My Own Private Idaho. "I think I had a thing for River Phoenix."
Nick raised a brow. "Had?"
Bobby shrugged, lips curving. "Still do."
Nick looked him up and down. "You've got that same lost-boy energy. Except taller. And mouthier."
Bobby laughed. "You think I'm mouthy?"
"I think you've never once in your life answered a question with a simple yes or no."
"Well." Bobby flipped the case over to read the blurb. "Life's more interesting in the parentheses."
Nick nodded, bemused. "That it is."
They reached a shelf marked Staff Favorites, the hand-painted letters crooked and charming.
Nick reached past Bobby and pulled out The Last Picture Show. "I saw this in college," he said. "By accident. It was playing in this dusty theater with torn seats and a broken air conditioner. Everyone around me was asleep. I cried like a baby."
Bobby took the box from him, studying the image on the front. "It's one of those films where nothing happens and everything happens," he murmured. "The kind that sticks to your ribs."
Nick glanced at him, thoughtful. "Exactly."
Their eyes lingered on each other.
Bobby looked away first.
In the back, near the counter, there was a beat-up leather couch with torn armrests and a TV set on a rolling cart. A VCR sat beneath it like a crown jewel. Bobby dropped onto the couch and held up Call Me by Your Name.
"Overrated," he said, shaking the box.
Nick made a face. "Blasphemy."
Bobby leaned back, legs stretched, loose and easy. "Beautiful cinematography. Amazing soundtrack. But it's all longing and peaches and people staring out of windows. I need more teeth."
Nick raised a brow. "More teeth?"
"I need my romances to bleed."
Nick walked over and stood above him. "I think you just want someone who knows what they want."
Bobby blinked, the teasing in his expression faltering slightly. "Maybe."
Nick sat beside him.
Close, but not too close.
Bobby tossed the movie back onto the pile and picked up a copy of Before Sunrise. "This, though. This is it for me. The walking. The talking. The almost-ness of it all."
Nick smiled faintly. "You like beginnings."
Bobby shook his head, quieter now. "No. I like the middle. The part where you're both unsure. Where everything is potential. No baggage. No damage yet."
Nick studied him for a long moment. "That's a lie."
Bobby looked up.
"You like the middle," Nick said, "because you think endings are inevitable."
Bobby didn't answer right away. He looked at the movie in his hands, at the delicate art of two people leaning into one another under a dusky Vienna sky.
And then, softly. "Aren't they?"
Nick reached over and plucked the case from Bobby's fingers. Their hands brushed, electric, tender. His voice dropped, warm and low. "Not always," he uttered, slowly rising and wandering off.
Silence took over again.
And for a while, it lingered.
Then, Bobby leaned forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, head tilted with a half-smile.
"Your turn," he said. "Pick five."
Nick, who had been lazily flipping through a row of DVDs near the "Foreign" section, turned with an amused look. "Five?"
Bobby nodded, eyes glinting. "Don't overthink it."
Nick hesitated, coffee cup dangling loosely in one hand, the other skimming along the shelf. For a moment, he didn't move. Bobby could see him weighing it, not just the choices, but the vulnerability in the act itself. This wasn't a game for him. It was a mirror.
Finally, Nick set his cup down and walked with slow intention. He stopped at the Drama section and pulled out Ordinary People. "Predictable," he muttered with a faint, sardonic smile. "But this one gutted me. The silences between the characters, they say more than any line ever could."
He handed it to Bobby, who took it carefully, like it might still be warm with Nick's touch.
Nick kept moving, deeper into the aisles. The Sweet Hereafter was next. "There's something about this one," he said quietly. "The way it holds pain like a snow globe, shaking it but never letting it spill. I remember watching it when I was too young to understand why I couldn't stop crying."
Bobby was still. He didn't respond, just watched Nick.
Nick turned a corner and returned with two more in quick succession, The Lives of Others, and The Remains of the Day. "Control," Nick said, glancing down at the cases. "People pretending not to feel. Until it's too late."
Bobby swallowed. His gaze hadn't left Nick since the first movie. He felt himself sinking into that quiet gravity Nick always carried, a man composed of silence and old wounds, stitched with grace.
One left.
Nick wandered back toward the Romance shelf. He paused. A slow smile curved his lips as he plucked out a weathered copy of Harold and Maude.
Bobby blinked. "Really?"
Nick turned, his smile deepening into something softer. "Why not?"
Bobby took the case from him, laughing under his breath. "You're such a paradox, dude. Tragedy, repression, grief, and then...this weird little anarchist love story."
Nick looked at him with something unreadable in his eyes. "Maybe I like it because it ends before the world has a chance to ruin it."
Bobby held the stack now, pressed to his chest. His hands curled around the cases, but his eyes were on Nick, studying the faint salt in his stubble, the light in his irises when he talked about something that mattered.
"God," Bobby whispered. "You're so...weird."
Nick raised an eyebrow, almost amused. "Is that a compliment or a read?"
"Both," Bobby said, too quickly, too honestly.
Nick's smile lingered for a beat, then he turned back toward the old register. Bobby followed slowly, feeling the weight of the films against his chest like holding pieces of Nick's past. His pulse beat steady. In fact, nothing about this was loud, but it shook him all the same. As they reached the front counter, Nick placed the movies down one by one with careful precision, like votive offerings.
Bobby stood beside him.
And it was at that moment that Bobby knew.
He didn't want to just watch these films with Nick.
He wanted to be the film Nick would never return.
The one he would keep tucked away in a drawer, to play again and again, not because it was perfect, but because it said something true.
*
The coast unfurled beside them.
Bobby sat with one leg pulled up on the passenger seat, head leaned against the window, his eyes flicking to the waves now and then, but more often to the man driving beside him.
Nick's hand rested loosely on the wheel, fingers drumming against the leather. He hadn't said much since they'd left the store, but it wasn't a silence that needed filling. It was a suspension, something held between them, taut and trembling.
And then Bobby turned his head.
Their eyes met.
It was quiet at first.
A simple glance.
A glance that didn't move away.
Nick's lips curved, faintly. But it wasn't a smile. It was something else. Something that said: Don't look at me like that.
But Bobby didn't look away. Not this time. He straightened in his seat, one arm slung carelessly over the side door. Their gazes tangled in that tight, charged space between restraint and surrender.
Without a word, Nick's foot pressed down on the pedal. The engine purred. Then growled. The car surged forward.
Bobby's heart jerked in his chest. His lips parted, not in fear, but in anticipation. The wind roared through the window. His hair whipped back, eyes still on Nick, unwavering.
The car tore along the coastline, faster now, curving with the road like a silver blade through water. But neither of them looked away. It became a dare. A duel without swords. How long can you hold me? How deep can you look before you flinch? Nick's hands were steady on the wheel, but his jaw was clenched. Bobby felt it too, this electricity, this impossible ache.
Then, suddenly, the brake.
Nick punched it. Hard.
The tires shrieked.
The car veered sharply to the left, skidding across the road in a blur of dust and rubber. Bobby's body jerked forward, caught by the seatbelt with a brutal thud. The car rocked once, then stilled, angled sideways across the empty road.
Silence.
Nothing but the tick of the engine cooling and the slow rise and fall of their breathing. Their chests heaved in unison. Bobby blinked, breathless, and turned to Nick.
His lips quivered.
And then he cracked. A wild, unstoppable laugh burst from him, full-bodied and gasping. Nick followed an instant later, a deeper, raspier laugh that fell from his mouth like gravel and wine. They laughed like fools. Like boys. Like survivors. They laughed until their stomachs ached and their cheeks burned. Until the tension broke wide open, leaving them breathless in its wake.
And then Bobby moved.
Without thinking, without asking.
He lunged.
Climbed across the center console, over the gear shift, into Nick's lap, one hand in Nick's hair, the other clawing at his jaw. Nick caught him, hard, hands wrapping around Bobby's thighs with a desperate grip.
Their mouths crashed.
There was no hesitation, no stutter of nerves. Just heat and hunger and years of emotional silence bleeding out between their teeth. Their lips parted, met again, opened wider. Tongues brushed, tested, tasted, laced. Bobby whimpered, rolling his hips down into Nick's lap, the friction unbearable, electric. He could feel Nick's hard cock rubbing against his taint.
Nick moaned against Bobby's mouth, low and guttural. And Bobby replied, eyes wide shut with rapture as he finally tasted Nick. Nutmeg. Cinnamon. And a touch of basil.
He could lose himself in it forever, Bobby thought.
Their hands roamed without shame, Nick's palms sliding beneath Bobby's shirt, fingers splaying across warm, ridiculously smooth skin. Bobby pressed closer, grinding, gasping, his breath catching when Nick's thumb dragged along the edge of his waistband. Bobby tilted his head, deepening the kiss, then pulled away just slightly, just enough to look into Nick's eyes.
Their foreheads pressed.
Their noses touched.
Their mouths hovered.
Neither of them spoke.
The moment hung, trembling, sacred. A ritual of bodies and silence and longing. Of everything unsaid made holy through touch.
Bobby's fingers slid through Nick's hair, slow and reverent, while Nick's hand cupped the back of Bobby's neck, thumb stroking the bruised skin.
And then, softly, like a seal pressed onto skin, Bobby kissed him again, slow this time. Less hunger. More devotion.
They stayed like that for a while. Breathing the same air. Wrapped around each other. As if the world outside no longer existed. Just the ocean. The road. The car.
And the impossible, undeniable fact of them.
Eventually, and quite reluctantly, Bobby peeled himself off Nick's lap. Not a single word between them.
The ride back was cloaked in silence. But not the kind that weighed down like guilt. No. It was a silence that cradled them, soft, trembling, full. When they arrived, Nick parked the car without a word. The sun had dipped, and the house waited like a candle half-melted. A sanctuary.
Nick opened the door and stepped aside.
Bobby passed him, brushing their shoulders in the narrow frame. The touch was featherlight, but searing. He walked into the foyer and paused. Nick followed, closing the door behind them. His back rested against it, eyes already searching for Bobby's.
They found each other.
And then Bobby moved.
He reached for Nick's hand. Fingers laced, palms pressed. He gave no command, only a look. A pull. An invitation.
Nick followed.
Up the stairs.
Through the shadows.
Into the bedroom.
The room smelled like them now. Bobby released Nick's hand the moment they crossed the threshold. Then he walked to the foot of the bed and turned.
And began to undress.
It was not rushed. It wasn't coy, either. It was raw and intimate, a quiet shedding of armor. His shirt came off first. Pulled slowly over his head, revealing the golden lines of his torso beneath the low light. He wasn't the same, all nerves and rage and wild uncertainty. He seemed different now. Nick could see it. Young, yes, but sculpted by grief and growth, his beauty no longer fragile, but real. Earned.
Nick stood in the doorway, watching. His breath shallow. His gaze devouring.
Bobby's fingers moved to the button of his jeans. The soft flick of metal. The slide of denim down lean hips. He stepped out of them. Now only in his briefs, Bobby paused. A breath. A beat. Then he let them fall.
The fabric whispered to the floor.
And there he stood, naked. Not flaunting. Not ashamed. Just offering. A gift unwrapped. A prayer waiting to be answered.
Nick's throat bobbed as he swallowed. It might have been the first and only time Bobby saw Nick nervous. "Are you sure?" he asked, a tremor beneath the warmth.
Bobby didn't speak. He just smiled. Softly. Bravely. It was the first time anyone had asked.
He nodded once. And then he turned and climbed onto the bed, slow, graceful. He lay on his back, one arm stretched above his head, the other resting lightly across his belly. His body glowed, golden and pale, like something out of a dream. A living painting. His thighs slightly parted. The curve of his waist catching shadow. He looked at Nick, waiting.
Open to him.
Wanting him.
Nick exhaled, and with a gentle push, he closed the door shut.
There was a soft click.
Before the rest of the world faded away.
(To be continued...)
Casual Wanderer © 2025
All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the brief quotations
embodied in critical reviews and specific other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
