"That Place Only We Know (Part 3)"
(Five Years Later)
The worst of it had passed.
The reporters were gone now, like flies after a feast, leaving behind nothing but upturned chairs. The crowd had thinned into a quiet procession. Most were readers with dog-eared copies, clutching A Bad Education as if it were a map of their own wounds. Nick had signed his name over and over, always with the same small smile, the same grace. But his eyes kept drifting past them, beyond the table, the books, to the back of the room.
Bobby.
He stood by the exit, half-shadowed by a row of columns. He hadn't moved in the last fifteen minutes. Arms folded. Back against the wall. Watching. It had been years since they'd been in the same room. And yet, Nick knew the tilt of that head. The weight in Bobby's posture. He knew that posture meant a storm had passed and left its wreckage behind.
The final guest approached a young woman, breathless with excitement. Nick asked her name. He asked if she liked the ending. She said yes. She said she cried. Nick thanked her, signed her book, and sent her off with a kind smile. But already, his gaze was drifting again.
When the doors finally closed behind her, the hush fell like snow. Nick stood. Bobby didn't move. The silence between them was intimate, more revealing than any embrace.
"You came," Nick said, his voice low and careful.
Bobby shrugged, eyes scanning the floor. "I almost didn't."
Nick let out a breath, half relief, half ache. "I wouldn't have blamed you."
Bobby stepped forward. Slow. As if approaching the edge of something. "You quoted me," he said. "Page sixty-two."
Nick nodded, lips barely parting. "I remember."
"You shouldn't have," Bobby said, but his voice didn't carry conviction. There was a flicker behind his eyes. Something unhealed.
Nick didn't reply. He walked around the table, stopping a few feet from him. They were close now, the kind of close that made memory sting.
"I didn't think you'd come," Nick admitted.
"I didn't either," Bobby said. There was a beat of silence. Then another. "I read it," Bobby said. "Twice."
Nick smiled, barely. "And?"
"You're still a bastard," Bobby said, but his voice cracked, almost fond. "But a good one."
Nick chuckled. "Was it hard?"
Bobby didn't answer right away. His eyes drifted toward the windows, New York glimmering beyond the glass. "It was like opening a drawer I'd nailed shut. Every chapter. Every line. There were pieces of me in it. Of us. But you never said it outright."
Nick's face softened. "You know why."
"Because if we say it out loud, it becomes real," Bobby murmured. "And if it's real...then we can't pretend anymore."
Another silence.
Then Bobby took a step closer, close enough that Nick could see every detail of his smooth collarbone. The one he'd kissed time and time again years ago when the world still felt like theirs.
"I still think about that day," Bobby said.
Nick looked at him. Bobby met his gaze. They both knew which day. The one neither had ever spoken of. The one that broke everything.
Bobby shook his head. "I waited for you to come back. I stood there. For two hours."
"I'm sorry." Their eyes met again, and for a moment, the world stood still. "You look different," Nick said softly. "Stronger."
Bobby smirked. "I had to be."
Nick opened his mouth, but the words failed him. He looked down at his hands instead. "I'm glad you came," he said.
"I'm not," Bobby replied. "But I'm here."
And that was enough.
For now.
They stood in the quiet, two men wading through the ruins of what they'd once built. Something beautiful. Something pure.
And somewhere in their silence, a beginning lingered, frayed, tentative, and full of ghosts.
But still. A beginning.
*
(Present Time)
Nick stood at the foot of the bed, his hand still on the doorknob. Before him, Bobby lay across the sheets, naked. Half in shadow, half bathed in the paleness that crept through the open curtains. His body was sculpted in soft curves and edges, a poem written in flesh and breath. One arm bent lazily under his head, the other resting over the shallow rise of his stomach. His eyes, those maddening, enigmatic eyes, watched Nick with an expression that was both challenge and plea.
"Come closer," Bobby said, his voice barely more than a murmur in the hush of the room.
Nick moved slowly. There was no need to rush. Every step he took toward the bed was careful, as though crossing into some sacred space. The room felt holy. Heavy with meaning. With all the roads they had walked, through fire, through silence, through pain, and yet, somehow, ended up here.
"Take it off," Bobby whispered. "I want to see you."
Nick paused, hands at the hem of his shirt, eyes locked with Bobby's.
This wasn't about lust.
This was about trust.
About surrender.
With steady fingers, he lifted the fabric over his head and let it fall quietly to the floor. His skin glowed faintly, every line and scar and muscle telling its own story. He didn't look away from Bobby. He wanted him to see. To know.
Then the jeans. The sound of the zipper was sharp, almost intimate in its own right. Nick peeled them off, revealing the long, lean strength of his legs. He stood for a moment in nothing but the rawness of his presence, his breath slow, measured. Bobby's gaze drank him in, not like someone who wanted to possess, but like someone who wanted to remember. He seemed to be memorizing Nick, not just his body, but the way his chest rose and fell, the way his eyes never flickered with doubt.
Nick slid his thumbs under the waistband of his boxers and pushed them down. His hard, 9-inch cock came loose, a thick string of sheer liquid dangling from its tip.
He moved onto the bed, crawling beside Bobby until their shoulders nearly touched. Bobby turned on his side and reached for him, fingertips brushing the soft inside of Nick's wrist, then higher to his jaw. He didn't speak. Everything he felt was written in the hush between them, in the heat of their skin, in the closeness that stretched like a held breath. They lay facing each other, close enough to feel the rhythm of each other's bodies but not yet touching fully.
Then, Nick finally brushed a hand down Bobby's arm, pausing at the curve of his elbow, then letting it drift to his waist. His touch was reverent, almost shy as if he were discovering something delicate, too valuable to claim. Bobby leaned in, their foreheads nearly touching, and they exhaled together, a shared breath, soft and warm.
It was a ritual of nearness. Fingers tracing spines. Knees bumping gently. Breath curling across shoulders and necks. Eyes closing. The kind of intimacy that asked for nothing but presence.
"I wish..." Bobby stammered, his voice breaking slightly. "I wish you had been my first," he conveyed.
It was the most beautiful thing Nick had ever heard. So simple yet rivaling the most breathtaking poetry.
Nick's hand slid up Bobby's waist, his fingers digging a tad deeper into his skin, touch tipping into that quiet hunger. He pulled Bobby's body closer, his fingers diving into the boy's crack, sliding gently between his cheeks and teasing his entrance. In the same breath, Nick's mouth dove, ardent and sure, into Bobby's lips. As soon as they touched, Bobby let out a sharp moan. And from under Nick's lips, he smiled.
"Nick..." he whispered, his words buried by the sound of Nick's groans as he slid his tongue inside Bobby's mouth, his own lips engulfing the boy's.
Bobby's mouth felt like paradise. A haven, Nick thought. He could stay there forever, tasting Bobby. Feeding off his unbearably irresistible taste.
Nick's hips began to twitch, his shaft nudging Bobby's inner thighs, precum glazing the boy's skin, coating it gently. Bobby could feel it, and it wasn't long before his hand arm slid between their bodies, hand reaching for Nick's cock, stroking it slowly. The moment he pulled the foreskin back, the small puddle of precum inside oozed out, sliding down his hand.
Their lips broke apart slightly then, enough for both to finally breathe.
"Fuck..." Bobby moaned, a string of spit slowly stretching between their mouths.
Nick looked down at Bobby's eyes and smiled. "Yeah," he replied, kissing Bobby's lips again. "That," he added, his breath coating the tight space between them.
Bobby smirked, that endearing curve of lips Nick was beginning to revere. He pulled up and rolled sideways, his mouth falling inches from Nick's cock. Nick looked out the window and closed his eyes. And just like a glorious homecoming, he felt Bobby's lips wrap around him, the warmth of his mouth hugging his thick, veiny walls. He could feel Bobby's tongue working under it, wet, slick, teasing all the sensitive spots.
They had been there before. But this time. This time, it felt different. There was no surprise in the way Bobby's mouth moved. No mapping of the unknown. No.
This was worship.
This was adoration.
"Jesus," Nick uttered, eyes rolling slightly back before they returned, locking on Bobby's own hard cock, dangling loosely in front of him.
Nick smiled, and without an ounce of hesitation, he wrapped his fingers around the base of Bobby's cock, aimed it at his mouth, and leaned in.
A lick of the tongue over the tip first. Just a hint. Immediately, Nick noticed a popping sound. Bobby's mouth had detached. Surprised, for sure. Nick had fucked Adrian enough times to know he would never go down on another guy. Let alone Bobby. That would be, for Adrian, a sign of weakness.
Bobby's unsure voice broke through. "I..." he stuttered before pausing.
"Relax," Nick replied, his voice calm and almost composed. "And try to keep up," he added with a hint of challenge.
Without missing a beat, he dove his mouth back into Bobby's shaft, sliding all 7-inches down his throat. Nick wasn't playing around. And he wasn't one to lose. He had years of experience in his belt, after all. So, as soon as he began to bob his head up and down, Bobby's body collapsed back, holding prey to Nick's lips and tongue.
"Oh my God..." Bobby whispered, his body trembling slightly as Nick sucked him off to an inch of his free will.
Bobby's head fell back, his arms curling up the sheets, sliding languidly beside his ears and coasting over his head, a smirk of delight spread across his face. The feeling was excruciatingly good. The way Nick's mouth dove down, the tip of his nose rubbing against the soft rug of pubes. How it lingered there, confident, sure. No gagging, no discomfort, the walls of Nick's mouth closing around him like a heartbeat. Then, how it lifted slowly, careful not to detach, not even a little. Lips crawling their way up with reverence, claiming every inch of skin as theirs. But by the time it reached the edge of Bobby's cock, a string of unnamed emotions had traveled through his body, each one nudging him closer to climax. And if that wasn't enough, as Nick's mouth lingered at the edge, his tongue would dance from side to side, teasing the gland with beautifully choreographed motions.
Every journey of Nick's mouth would usher a spasm, the tip of Bobby's cock squirting a small amount of liquid. "Fuck... you're gonna make me come," he warned.
Nick chuckled, his nose breathing out the laugh before he pulled away slowly, planting a soft kiss on the tip of Bobby's dick.
He stared at it, enamored by how it twitched like a nerve, trembling on the verge of an outburst. "Yeah, you're not gonna hold it," Nick teased.
And with that, he closed his mouth around it again in time for Bobby to start unloading inside. The strings were thick, long, and textured, like honey. Bobby's fingers gripped the sheets, his teeth biting into his lips, chest rising and ass clenching as he rode the highest high of his life. Nick stood there, throat wide open, swallowing every single drop of Bobby's ecstasy, soft moans escorting each spurt until there was nothing left. Nothing except the beautiful sensation of the young man's body landing softly under him, sinking into the mattress like a plume.
Nick pulled away, his throat closing, ushering with it the last drops of Bobby's cum.
"I owed you one," Nick's deep voice said before he fell back on the bed.
Their heads turned in perfect synchrony. And their eyes met.
Seconds later, they burst into laughter.
Unbridled.
Free.
True.
*
Nick lay on his back, his arm gently folded behind his head, his other hand tracing the faint outline of Bobby's spine where it curved like a question mark against his side. Bobby was curled toward him, eyes fluttering shut and then opening again, like he hadn't quite decided whether sleep or waking was safer.
Nick watched him, the young man's bare shoulder rising and falling with every breath. There was something impossibly raw in the way Bobby let his fingers rest against Nick's chest, like a child touching water for the first time, unsure if it would burn or cleanse.
"You're staring," Bobby whispered, his voice still rough, uncertain.
"I am," Nick replied. His voice was low, steady, warm.
Bobby shifted, his eyes flicking up to meet Nick's. "Don't," he added, already wincing, as if bracing for something embarrassing to spill from his mouth.
But Nick only smiled, and that smile, quiet, patient, unflinching, dismantled those last stubborn pieces of armor around Bobby's soul. "You don't have to feel embarrassed," Nick said, and with the ease of someone who meant it, he reached up and gently brushed his thumb across Bobby's cheekbone.
Bobby's lips parted, and for a moment, it seemed like he was going to speak. Some confession hung just behind his teeth, waiting for a wind strong enough to carry it out.
But the words didn't come.
Instead, he gave in to the gravity between them and let his head rest fully against Nick's chest. The thrum of Nick's heartbeat filled his ear. A soft, repetitive comfort. A lullaby that said everything words could not. Nick's fingers moved to Bobby's hair and threaded through it slowly, carefully. He stayed there, repeating the movement until Bobby's body caved in completely.
A breath later, his voice pushed through. "Nick?" he whispered.
Nick's hand kept moving, the weight of Bobby's head falling deeper into him. "Yeah?" he whispered back.
Bobby rested his head against the wall, eyes drifting lazily over the stars. "Can I ask you something?"
Nick, next to him, turned his gaze from the sea to Bobby. "Always."
There was a pause. Bobby's fingers toyed with a loose thread on his shirt. His voice, when it came, was low, unsure.
"What does it feel like?" he asked. "To make love to someone," Bobby said. "I'm not talking about fucking. I don't mean the rush. I mean…love."
The words hung.
Honest.
Unguarded.
Nick didn't answer right away. His face shifted with thought. Then he let out a slow breath, eyes trained somewhere inside Bobby's.
"It's...quiet," Nick said. "That's the first thing. Your head, your thoughts, they go quiet. Everything else just...disappears. You don't think about time anymore. Or regret. Or who you were before."
Bobby swallowed. His eyes hadn't left Nick.
"It's like…" Nick continued, choosing his words slowly, carefully. "...stepping inside someone's soul and finding the parts that no one else was ever invited to touch. You see them...pulsing underneath. Their truths. Their fears. Their hopes. Their scars. And you don't look away."
His voice trembled slightly. Whether from memory or the weight of his own truth, Bobby didn't know.
"Sometimes it feels like drowning. But there's this moment, right before you come...where your body recognizes the other. It's almost like praying. And your heart…" He paused, smiling softly. "Your heart says yes. Just...yes. This is it."
Bobby's eyes shone, not with tears, but with the ache of understanding something just beyond reach. "I don't think I've ever felt that," he said.
Nick turned to him, his gaze trembling with devotion for this broken young man before him who had allowed Nick access to the most vulnerable part of himself. Nick smiled, biring back his tears.
"Let me show you, then," he stated.
Bobby's eyes blinked once before Nick rolled over, his body sliding on top of Bobby's. He slid between his smooth legs, knees kicking up as he spread Bobby's legs apart. His cock was already hard and leaking, taking its rightful place, tucked under the boy's taint. Nick's arms came up, sliding under Bobby's armpits and resting under him. One hand holding his neck, the other holding his head. They lingered there, steady. That is, until Bobby's gaze drifted to the window.
Nick's hands tightened, and he forced Bobby's gaze to return. "Stop running," Nick said softly. He could see Bobby fighting back the tears. "You're...beautiful, Bobby. Flawed. And beautiful," he continued, his every word binding Bobby's soul to his, like an enchantment almost. Bobby could feel the tip of Nick's cock teasing his entrance, the soft walls of his hole slowly expanding. "And you deserve to know what it's like," he persisted, his cock sliding effortlessly inside.
He wasn't pushing or forcing it.
The merge was organic.
One body receiving the other.
Nick felt Bobby's eyes finally lock on his. There they were. And now, they weren't going anywhere. Nick smiled in awe. How they shifted slightly with each movement. How they squinted in surprise at that new feeling. How they fluttered, ever so subtly, as Nick fell into Bobby's body.
It wasn't long before his hips sank into Bobby's, their bodies plunging into the mattress. He was all the way in. And this time, there was nothing. No moan. No groan. No slap of skin against skin. There was barely a notion of their own bodies anymore. There were only Bobby's eyes. And his.
"Nick..." Bobby stuttered.
And just like that, Nick kissed him.
Lips laced, tongues swirling together in a precious dance. A breathless kiss brimming with need, longing, joy, and tenderness. Everything Nick yearned to give. And everything Bobby craved to receive.
The sounds came next. Free now. Liberated in their softness. They weren't hiding or running away. They were galloping across an open field wit. Untethered.
Nick's hips began to move after. Slowly, reverently, aiding his cock as it slid inside Bobby's body, every bloated inch worshiping his body's warmth. The strokes were soft, practiced. Yet, they felt deep. Deeper than anything Bobby had ever felt. Because of that softness, Nick's body was reaching places inside Bobby that had never been touched.
"Fuck...oh fuck..." Bobby whimpered, his legs lacing around Nick's waist, his feet locking just inches from Nick's sacrum.
Once that happened, Nick's rhythm increased. But not in intensity. Rather in intent. Each push was another word, another promise, another vow. A movement that sent Bobby's body a message.
Nothing will ever be the same after this.
Their eyes kept locked. Glistening with emotion, they drew closer and closer. "Do you feel that?" Nick asked, squinting as he waved his hips back and forth, pushing his cock to brush Bobby's prostate with tenderness and care.
Bobby nodded, mouth slightly parted, his damp hair clinging to his forehead now. That's really all he could do. Nod. Acknowledge that Nick was right. It did feel quiet. It did feel whole. It did feel as if the world could end at any moment. And if it did, Bobby would be okay with it. Because the end would be worth it as long as Nick was there.
Whatever that feeling was.
That truth inside Nick's eyes.
That's who Bobby was.
A wave of euphoria filled Bobby's chest and his hole clenched, a desperate attempt to hold Nick hostage. How could he let him go now, Bobby thought as he stared at Nick? How could he ever leave that bed and walk by himself again, he wondered?
He could feel Nick's cock swell inside him, the verge of release closer now. And that's when the last string holding Bobby to reality snapped.
The world went numb.
Time slowed to a halt.
Everything went quiet.
Everything except Bobby's voice. "Yes," he whispered, body sliding up and down as Nick's cock slid in and out of him. "Just...yes," he continued, the words eliciting the most beautiful smile to take hold of his lips. "This is it," Bobby cried out.
"I'm coming... I'm..." Nick announced.
And just like that, for the first time in his life, Bobby opened his soul and let Nick see who he was. "Nick...I love you," he whispered, his hands trailing down Nick's back and grabbing his muscular ass, bracing for his lover's release.
And it came. By God, it came.
It took every ounce of Nick's strength to prevent his eyes from closing. But he made sure that Bobby saw all of him as his body unloaded, rope after sweet rope of warm, thick cum inside his hole. It was overwhelming. Like riding a wave for the first time.
And as the high subsided, their bodies began to merge, sweat, tears, and fatigue melding into melted steel. Nick fell on Bobby, panting. Their foreheads touching gently.
Nick's cock softened, its presence still welcomed inside Bobby's hole, and as they lay there, unable to pull away from each other, neither could deny what words had yet to convey.
That everything had changed.
And that for Nick and Bobby, there would always be a life before and after this moment.
*
The sound of Nick's phone buzzing on the nightstand fractured the hush that had fallen over the room.
Bobby stirred slightly but didn't lift his head from Nick's chest. Nick reached over, his arm gently brushing Bobby's shoulder, and glanced at the screen. He hesitated a moment before answering.
"Hello?" His voice was quiet, cautious.
On the other end, the nurse's tone was efficient but kind. "Mr. Morrisey? Adrian is awake. He's conscious and stable now. You're welcome to come in and see him."
Nick thanked her softly and ended the call.
Bobby's breath hitched subtly, and Nick felt the shift before Bobby even moved. He sat up slowly, carefully, the warmth between them dissipating like steam against the cold surface of reality.
"He's awake," Bobby said, not needing confirmation.
Nick nodded. "Yes."
Bobby's eyes dropped to the sheets tangled around his waist. The softness in him hardened again, the calm slipping through the cracks like water down a drain. "I'm not going," he said flatly. "I don't want to see him."
Nick sat up, careful with his words. "You don't have to," he said.
Bobby turned to him, searching for any trace of disappointment, but all he found in Nick's face was that steady, impossible calm. Understanding. Acceptance. The thing he had chased for years and had only just begun to grasp.
"I'll go," Nick added, his hand brushing lightly against Bobby's thigh. "You stay here. Rest."
Bobby said nothing. He just nodded once and turned his face away, eyes fixed on the wall. But Nick could see the storm gathering behind them, the old tides of guilt and anger pulling Bobby under again.
Nick leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Bobby's temple before rising from the bed. "I'll be back soon," he said.
The door closed behind him with a hush, leaving Bobby alone in the quiet, the sheets still holding the warmth of something tangible that now seemed a million miles away.
*
Nick walked through the automatic doors, a paper cup of cooling coffee in hand, and gave his name to the nurse at the desk. She led him down the corridor with the soft sympathy of someone who had delivered too many families into rooms like this.
Room 212.
He paused at the threshold, staring at the door before finally pushing it open. The first thing he saw was the machine, its quiet, rhythmic beep like a ticking clock counting down something invisible. The second thing was Adrian. Propped up against sterile white pillows, his body looked smaller. Shrunken. The man who once filled the room he walked into with sheer, unrelenting presence now lay still, half-draped in a hospital gown, the sheet pulled up over his waist. His sharp jawline had softened overnight, one side of his face slightly slack, mouth curling down without control. His left arm rested limply by his side.
But his eyes, those intense eyes, were sharp. Still Adrian. Still aware. And furious.
Nick stepped in and closed the door gently behind him. "Hey," he said, softly, as though testing the temperature of the air.
Adrian struggled to lift his head. "You...came," he managed, voice slurred but decipherable. He hated how it sounded. His eyes flinched at the sound of himself.
"I did," Nick replied, placing the coffee down on the small table near the bed. He didn't sit.
Adrian's eyes tracked him with a mix of suspicion and desperation. "Bobby?"
Nick paused. That was quick. Not even a how are you. Not even a what happened. Just Bobby.
"He's not coming," Nick said. Calm. Measured.
Adrian's jaw tensed, or tried to. His good hand fisted the blanket, pulling it slightly toward his body. Nick could see the rage rising behind the disappointment. The need for control rearing its head again, only now caged by nerves and deadened limbs.
"He...where...," Adrian said, voice dragging.
Nick didn't respond. He stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, gaze drifting toward the muted television mounted in the corner of the room, flickering through morning news segments no one was watching.
"Why?" Adrian asked. "Why...he...?"
"Because he's hurt, Adrian," Nick answered softly.
Adrian stared at him, swallowing hard. His hand twitched, grasping at the plastic rail beside him as if the truth could be fought with fingers and force of will. "Y-you d-don't...under..."
"I do," Nick interrupted. He turned his eyes on Adrian, their calmness like a knife's edge. "I understand everything."
Adrian's face twisted, not with confusion but with the bitterness of recognition. Nick was different. Not angry. Not even aloof. Just absent. Not the man who once stood by his side, cleaned up his messes, made excuses for his temper, for his cruelty.
"I d-didn't...mean..."
"I know," Nick said. "You never mean to. That's always been your gift, hasn't it? You burn everything down and then cry at the ashes."
Silence.
Adrian looked away. His lips tried to form a rebuttal, a retort, anything, but his body failed him. And maybe, for the first time, his excuses failed him too.
Nick approached slowly, pulled the chair out from beside the bed, and sat. But not close. He wasn't there to comfort. Only to bear witness. "You know, Adrian, I used to think your cruelty was unintentional," Nick continued. "That your wounds made you incapable of seeing others. But now…I think you saw us just fine. You just didn't think we'd ever..."
Adrian's lips trembled. His good hand clutched the edge of the blanket tighter. "You...leaving me?"
Nick looked at him. Long. Slow. "I should. But I'm not that cruel, Adrian," he said. Adrian blinked. Nick stood again. "I'll let the nurses in now."
Adrian's voice broke as he tried to speak, something, anything, but Nick was already at the door. He opened it, the light from the hallway slicing through him.
"Nick…" Adrian's voice muttered behind him.
Nick stopped. But he didn't turn around. "Try to sleep. You need to rest," he said, not unkindly.
And with that, Nick walked out.
*
(Six Months Later)
The sea outside crashed against the shore with the constancy of a metronome, one of the few sounds left untouched by time. Inside the beach house, the world had slowed down to the rhythm of recovery, measured, unyielding.
Adrian was in the old main bedroom, now redesigned with white-painted parallel bars along one side and a wide-open space cleared for movement. What once held a king-sized bed and nights of lust or rage or both now bore the quiet antiseptic smell of determination and grief. A therapy mat had been rolled out over the floor, and a series of dumbbells lay untouched beneath the window. In the corner, a humming air purifier stirred the dustless air.
Adrian was seated in his wheelchair, his spine straighter than it had been in months. His shoulders looked firmer again, not as frail. His left hand twitched occasionally, a phantom memory or neurological misfire, no one could say. A physiotherapist crouched at his feet, gently stretching the muscles of his paralyzed legs. Adrian's jaw was clenched, the corners of his mouth tight with the effort of holding in what looked like fury.
"Try to lift your thigh," the therapist said gently, touching his right leg.
Adrian stared at his own body as if it were a stranger's. "I...am," he muttered, the words hard and sharp despite the slowness of his tongue. "It's just not...listening."
The therapist gave a patient smile and shifted his weight, lifting Adrian's leg again. "You're getting stronger. The resistance is better than last week. We'll keep going."
At that moment, the door creaked open. The scent of roasted coffee beans drifted in first, followed by the unmistakable sound of Nick's loafers across the wood floor.
Adrian didn't look. He didn't have to.
Nick stepped into the room with a calm that was too precise, too curated to be natural anymore. He held a small tray with a mug and a glass of water. One for himself. One for Adrian.
"I brought your pills," he said, placing the glass on the side table. His voice was even, crisp. "You're twenty minutes late."
Adrian let out a slow exhale as though Nick's very presence winded him. "Tell time...so well now," Adrian muttered.
Nick glanced at the therapist. "Will you need the room for much longer?"
The man looked up, trying not to appear uncomfortable. "Just five more minutes. We're almost done with his stretches."
"Fine." Nick turned to leave but hesitated at the door. "The nurse will be in after lunch. I'll be in the study until then."
It was always the study now. Never our room. Never the bedroom. Nick slept on the daybed in the converted office. At least, that's what Adrian assumed. He watched Nick's back as he left, stiff posture, no trace of softness in the line of his shoulders.
Adrian looked down at his legs. "He hates me," he whispered.
The therapist, unsure whether he should respond, chose to say nothing.
"No, not hates," Adrian corrected himself, his voice gravel-thin, worn down from the labor of surviving. "Worse. He loathes me."
The therapist adjusted the weight on Adrian's ankle, setting the leg down gently.
Nick had been there every day. Cleaning, feeding, managing appointments, coordinating with doctors, sorting through mail, always moving, always doing. And yet never there. He hadn't laughed, not in the way Adrian remembered. He hadn't snapped either nor raised his voice. Adrian missed the yelling. The passion. The terrible electricity that once cracked between them. Now Nick merely hovered like fog, present, cool, impossible to touch.
The therapist helped guide Adrian back into his chair, buckled the straps gently, and patted his shoulder. "You did good today. I'll see you Thursday."
When the man left, Adrian wheeled himself to the window. The beach looked golden in the sun, but its beauty felt far away. Nick was outside, carrying the recycling to the bin. Adrian hated what he'd done. Hated even more that Nick still stayed. And most of all, he hated that he knew why.
Several minutes later, Nick came back. The glass clinked against the wood as Nick set it down. Two pills in his open palm, one red, one pale blue. Adrian reached out with a trembling hand and took them without a word, dropping them onto his tongue and swallowing with a mouthful of water. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and set the empty glass aside, still watching Nick.
Nick, meanwhile, was already straightening the objects on the bedside table. He adjusted the clock by three degrees. Nudged the water bottle half an inch. He didn't look at Adrian.
The silence stretched like damp cloth between them. Until Adrian finally broke it. "He's still upset with me."
Nick's hand froze over the cap of the pill bottle. "He's not."
"Don't lie."
Nick turned his head slightly. Just slightly. "I'm not."
Adrian studied him, trying to peel him apart with his gaze the way Nick used to do so easily with him. "Then why's he not here? Why doesn't he call me?"
Nick exhaled, slow and silent. He replaced the pill bottle in the drawer and closed it carefully, then rested both hands on the surface of the table.
"I spoke to him," Nick said after a long beat. "I convinced him to come by this weekend."
Adrian's neck jerked slightly. His fingers clenched around the hem of the blanket over his lap. "You convinced him?"
"I told him it might...help," Nick continued, deliberately choosing his words, each one shaped like a neutral verdict. "Closure is better than silence."
Adrian's jaw worked. His face tightened, the muscles twitching along his cheek as if something behind them were breaking free. "Why are you talking to him?" Nick didn't answer. "He won't even pick up when I call!"
Nick finally met Adrian's gaze, and for a second, just a second, there was something raw behind his eyes. But he swallowed it back down and said simply, "He doesn't want to speak to you."
Adrian's hand slammed against the metal armrest of his chair. "And you're just what now? His handler? His therapist? His lover?"
The word cut through the air, but Nick didn't flinch. Not visibly. "I'm trying to help," he said, too calm.
Adrian laughed, sharp and hoarse. "No. You're trying to manage me."
"I'm trying to keep this house from falling into a goddamn pit."
Adrian's mouth curled bitterly. "That's not your job anymore."
Nick turned and walked toward the door. The moment his hand touched the knob, Adrian's voice rang out, cracked and furious.
"Don't you fucking walk away from me, Nick." Nick paused but didn't turn around. "You're just waiting, aren't you?" Adrian's voice rose now, louder, unmoored. "Waiting for me to rot out of this chair. For my organs to start failing. For someone to tell you, it's okay to leave me." Nick remained still. So, Adrian shouted, "You think I don't see it? You don't kiss me. You don't even look at me anymore." Silence. "You think I'm pathetic. Half a man." Still nothing. Just Nick's back, his hand unmoved on the doorknob. Adrian pressed on, bitterness spilling through clenched teeth. "I was... And now I'm…furniture. Something to clean around."
A deep breath. Then, Nick turned the knob and opened the door. No final word. No sigh. No drama. He just left. The door clicked shut behind him, too soft to match the violence of Adrian's breathing.
Adrian sat there, shaking, chest heaving in small, jagged bursts. His hands trembled. The anger coiled into his throat, burning everything it touched on the way up. He wanted to scream after Nick. To curse him. To beg him.
But he didn't.
Even then, after everything, his pride wouldn't let him.
*
Nick heard the sound before he saw it. The low crunch of tires on gravel. Subtle, but unmistakable.
The pen in his hand slipped from between his fingers. He hadn't realized he'd stopped writing, hadn't even been aware that he was still holding the pen, so lost had he been in the marrow-deep fatigue clinging to every cell in his body. He sat hunched in the leather chair, its creases molded perfectly to his back, his legs folded under his desk where the early drafts of A Bad Education sat stacked with a kind of meticulous disorder. He'd been revising less and less, the words coming slower, with more weight.
His study, as always, was a quiet haven, every object in its place. Shelves lined with old books and annotated editions. A framed photograph of a stormy coastline above the fireplace. A green ceramic mug sat beside the manuscript, the tea inside long gone cold. The blinds were tilted just so, slicing the early afternoon light into clean ribbons that cut across the desk, the wall, the floor.
But the silence broke now.
Nick sat straighter. Not with urgency. With expectancy. The faintest lift of the corners of his lips betrayed his restraint. He didn't rush to the window. He didn't jump from his chair. He merely exhaled, long and soft, and looked toward the door as the sound of the car door slamming closed reached him.
Bobby was here.
Nick took the stairs one at a time, his bare feet whispering against the cool wood. He didn't rush. He never did. But something in the air had changed. Something that lives between people who have been apart too long and too intensely to pretend they aren't forever changed by the distance. The front door was already ajar, left that way on instinct perhaps or simply on hope.
And there, just past the porch steps, Bobby stood.
He had filled out in the months since they'd last stood face to face, shoulders broader, posture straighter, but it was in the stillness of his eyes that the change lived. Older. More tempered. Yet when he saw Nick standing at the front door, there was a flicker of the same boyish vulnerability Nick remembered holding in the quiet dark.
They didn't speak right away.
Nick's fingers curled around the doorframe. Bobby took a half step forward, his eyes roaming over the house, catching glimpses of what remained unchanged.
"Hi," Bobby said softly.
Nick's mouth barely moved. "Hi."
It could've broken there, fractured under the weight of all that had happened. But it didn't. Bobby closed the distance in two hurried strides and threw his arms around Nick. It wasn't hesitant or polite. It wasn't crafted for comfort. It was a collision, of ache, of want, of months apart compacted into a single gesture. Nick folded into it, arms tightening around the young man's back, pressing his cheek to Bobby's temple as if to commit his scent, his heat, his very presence to memory.
They stayed that way for a long while. Long enough for the wind to still, for the house to fall forgotten behind them. Long enough for time itself to hesitate, offering them a grace it rarely afforded.
Nick pulled back first, just enough to look at him. His hands slid down Bobby's arms, guiding him gently, without words, toward the porch. Away from the windows.
And then, without ceremony, Nick kissed him.
It wasn't rushed. It wasn't desperate. It was slow and full, like a breath that had been held too long and could finally be released. Bobby melted into it, hands lifting to cup the sides of Nick's face, his thumb grazing the corner of Nick's lips as if he needed proof they were real. Their bodies pressed together, not urgently, but wholly. As though each knew that no matter how the world twisted or who they were before, this was the truth that outlived everything else.
When they finally parted, neither spoke. They didn't need to. Their foreheads touched. Their breath mingled. Their fingers stayed intertwined.
They slowly slipped back into the house like thieves of their own moment, the hush of the porch giving way to the quiet of a kitchen. The sea's song trailed behind them, distant now. Nick moved, barefoot and quiet, pulling a kettle from the stove and setting it on the flame.
Bobby slid onto one of the stools at the counter, his arms resting loosely in front of him, chin propped against his hand as he watched Nick move. There was something private in the way his eyes trailed the line of Nick's shoulders, the slight curve of his lower back, the way his hand lingered a half-second longer than necessary when he reached for the sugar jar.
"So," Bobby murmured, keeping his voice low as if to protect the hush between them. "Still making tea like it's a sacred ritual."
Nick glanced at him, the corner of his mouth curving. "Some things are."
"I missed it," Bobby said. Then, after a pause. "I missed you."
Nick didn't look up right away. He poured the hot water over the loose leaves, the scent of jasmine curling up. "You were the one who said we should take space."
Bobby shrugged, trying for nonchalance, though his eyes gave him away. "I meant space. Not exile."
Nick finally looked up then, and his gaze softened. He placed the teacups on the counter, one before Bobby, one in front of his own seat, and then slid onto the stool opposite him. Their knees touched beneath the counter. Neither of them moved.
Across the wood between them, Nick reached out and let his hand rest lightly atop Bobby's. Bobby turned his palm up immediately, weaving their fingers together, the way he always did. The gesture was natural. Easy. Like a language spoken in a shared dream.
"What have you been writing?" Bobby asked, taking a sip of the tea.
Nick sighed through his nose. "Trying to finish something. Not sure what it wants to be yet. A memoir. A novel. A confession."
"Hopefully not a eulogy," Bobby teased, nudging Nick's foot under the counter.
Nick chuckled. "Too soon?"
Bobby grinned. "Maybe just in time."
They lapsed into a silence that didn't ache. Bobby's thumb brushed over Nick's knuckles, again and again, like he was grounding himself there. Their eyes would meet from time to time, small glances between sips, half-smiles, the subtle dance of people who had already mapped each other's rhythm, who didn't need words to understand.
Nick's eyes lingered on Bobby's face longer than he meant to. "You look different."
"Older?"
"No," Nick said. "More you."
Bobby flushed, dipping his head. "That a compliment?"
Nick leaned closer across the counter. "Oh...absolutely."
The kettle hissed in the sink. A bird chirped somewhere beyond the window. But here, at the counter, the world had narrowed to the gentle press of fingers, the curve of a smile, the miracle of finding something intact between all the ruin.
For a moment, they just sat there. Nothing to prove. No fire to put out. Just the quiet pulse of something deeply, achingly right.
Then Bobby said, "You know this is going to get complicated again, right?"
Nick gave a slight nod, eyes never leaving his. "It already is." Nick's fingers tightened ever so slightly around Bobby's. "He's stable," Nick said finally, his voice low, careful. "He's made progress with his therapist, physically and otherwise, but…" He paused, letting the unfinished sentence trail off. "But he's still Adrian."
Bobby let out a hollow chuckle, shaking his head. "Figures."
Nick glanced down into his tea. "He asks about you. Not all the time. But enough to know he hasn't let it go."
There was a long silence between them, filled only by the occasional tap of Bobby's thumb against the porcelain cup. Then Bobby asked, "Is he awake now?"
Nick shook his head. "Not likely. The meds knock him out around this time. Helps with the pain."
"Good," Bobby muttered before catching himself. He looked down, exhaling slowly. "I'm not...I didn't mean it like that. I just...was kinda hoping I could get it over with." He looked up at Nick.
Nick tilted his head, watching him. "You don't have to rush this, Bobby. There's no rulebook for how to do this part."
"I don't want to stay here longer than I have to."
Nick gave a small, understanding nod. "I'll make dinner."
Bobby blinked at him. "You don't have to."
"I want to," Nick interrupted gently, sliding off the stool. "Besides, I can tell you're hungry. You get cranky when you're hungry," he teased.
Bobby watched him move around the kitchen, barefoot, quiet and assured, like every movement was second nature. There was something calming about it, watching Nick open the fridge, pull out ingredients, and begin chopping onions with that particular rhythm only Nick had. Bobby sank deeper into his chair and folded his arms on the counter, resting his chin on them.
"I forgot how quiet you make things feel," he murmured.
Nick looked up from the cutting board. "Quiet isn't the same as empty."
"I know," Bobby said. "I didn't mean to disappear on you," he added after a beat.
Nick offered a small smile as he returned to his work. "I know."
They didn't speak much more after that. Bobby just sat there, watching the way Nick cooked, how he knew exactly how much of everything to use, how often he tasted the sauce, adjusted the heat.
When dinner was ready, Nick plated it with a simple elegance, sliding a dish in front of Bobby, then sitting across from him.
"Pasta primavera," Nick said. "With extra basil," Nifk added, winking.
Bobby didn't say anything. He just took the fork, twirled a bit, and took a bite. He chewed slowly. Swallowed.
Then he smiled.
Nick smiled back.
"So he's out until tomorrow morning," Bobby muttered in between bites. Nick nodded. There was a pause. "What are we supposed to do until then?" Bobby asked, an edge of sultriness taking hold of his voice.
Nick's eyes came up, narrowing slightly. He put his fork down, valuable the corners of his mouth with the napkin, and straightened his back, locking his eyes with Bobby's. "I can think of a couple of things," he replied, lips stretched into a smirk.
*
(Hours Later)
It was late.
The music downstairs thumped low and melodic, one of Nick's ambient playlists, the kind he used to coax stories from silence. Adrian stirred, the half-light of the moon slicing across the room. He blinked into it, groggy from the medication, something slow and heavy in his limbs.
But the sound. The music.
It was different tonight.
He turned his head. The wheelchair was out of reach, parked near the dresser. He reached for the nightstand but his fingers scraped only air.
"Nick," he called, dry-throated.
Nothing. He tried louder. "Nick!"
Still nothing. Adrian grit his teeth. He angled himself, locking his elbow against the mattress and pushing. His body betrayed him in tiny, infuriating ways. A twitch of the leg that didn't follow through. A shoulder that folded in on itself. Then, too fast, he rolled.
Thud.
The floor met him like an insult. He cursed. Pain flared up one side of his torso, but he didn't wait for it to subside. He began to crawl. Palms dragging, knees catching awkwardly. Inch by inch, breath by breath. A man who once ruled every room with the sway of his voice now reduced to silence and woodgrain. He'd laugh at himself if it wasn't so fucking tragic.
He reached the bedroom door. Slid it open. The hallway was dark, lit only by the spill of light from the stairwell ahead.
From there, he heard it more clearly.
Two voices. An occasional giggle. One of them Nick's. Warm, familiar, rare. The other is sharper. Laced with memory and youth.
Bobby.
Adrian dragged himself to the banister, his breathing harsh in his throat, sweat dripping off his forehead, a single line of it following him. He hoisted himself just high enough to look through the grid of wooden beams that ran along the mezzanine.
Downstairs, past the soft glow of the kitchen and the rich wood living room floor, he saw it.
One of the large armchairs, cut in half by Adrian's line of sight. Nick sat on it, naked, his muscular body looking more alive than Adrian remembered it. He stroked his cock with one hand, the other resting behind his head as he smiled. His eyes traced something. Something in the back of the room that moved toward him.
Adrian's breath caught in his throat. Bobby's voice, teasing, sensual, muffled under the loud music. Adrian couldn't make out what they were saying. A part of him was actually grateful for that. But apart from what he couldn't hear, what he saw was just as painful.
Bobby broke into the light, his beautiful, hypnotizing smooth body strutting into frame. Without missing a beat, he saddled into Nick's lap. His body was glistening with sweat. Adrian knew this sweat. It knew what it meant.
They'd been at it for hours.
Fucking traitors.
Bobby leaned into Nick, moaning as they kissed. His ass moved, rubbing into Nick's cock. Their mouths parted, and Nick's mouth brushed around Bobby's face and into his ear, whispering something. Something that propelled Bobby's laughter to brush out, joyful, true.
Adrian's chest burned, his eyes shivering.
Then, Bobby's hand came around his back, grabbed Nick's 9-inch cock, and guided it back inside his hole. It went in with one smooth motion. All of it. Bobby's neck snapped back before his head came back up, falling back into Nick's lips again. Nick whispered something else. His hands following his words as they circled Bobby's waist, descending into his cheeks where they stopped. Nick's fingers dug into them. And as soon as Bobby's head nodded, Nick's hips began moving.
Adrian's eyes narrowed, surprised.
There was a roughness to it. One imbued with a gentleness Adrian didn't recognize and, in fact, knew nothing about. He could see the walls of Bobby's hole stretch around Nick's girth. Welcoming it into his body.
There was a satisfaction to it. A need that he had never felt from Bobby. Born not from lust, but from adoration.
And that's when, from under the weight of the music, tenuous as the flickering wings of a small hummingbird, Adrian heard it.
"Fuck...Nick..." Bobby moaned. "I love you," he whimpered, his face digging into Nick's shoulder.
Nick's hands came up, fingers spread out, tracing up Bobby's back, all the way to his neck, where they finally lingered. "I love you, too..." Nick groaned, his hips pistoning passionately into Bobby. "So fucking much..."
Adrian's breath caught, his throat clamping tight. His fingers dug into the wood of the banister, his nails scraping paint until he couldn't hold himself up anymore. He sank down to the floor, head pressed against the cool railing. The music from below carried on, oblivious.
Adrian closed his eyes.
Inside, he wasn't angry.
He wasn't even shocked.
He was wrecked.
He had seen it coming in the glances, in the silences, in the way Bobby no longer fought with Nick, but simply existed in his orbit. And now it was real.
He wasn't just losing Bobby.
He wasn't just losing Nick.
He was losing the version of himself who had believed he was the center of someone's gravity.
He didn't scream.
He didn't call out.
He didn't demand anything.
He just lay there in the dark, in a puddle of his own sweat, staring at the ceiling, listening to the two people who'd loved him the most, loving each other inside the house he had once ruled.
Adrian wept.
Silently.
Because no one was watching.
And for the first time in a long time for Adrian, no one cared.
(To be continued...)
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