A corridor. Dean’s walked him out. “Such a gentleman,” Jerry lisps, and Dean laughs, that lovely rich sound that rolls around his mouth and makes Jerry tingle. His mouth, he thinks, watching it. He could put his laughter in my mouth. If he wants to. He brushes the back of his hand against Dean’s, watches the eyebrow that raises, relaxes, gasps as strong gentle fingers wrap round his wrist. Dean looks at him, stroking his hand. Jerry wants to cry, to laugh, but settles for kissing his cheek.
“Well, you can babysit again,” Dean says as Jerry hides his face.
A hotel. Dean’s invited him out, and Jerry struggles not to bounce off the walls. He sits on Dean’s bed, watches him pull on his jacket, check his hair in the mirror. He’ll catch his eye and smile, wink, then go back to the task at hand. And he looks so beautiful that Jerry has to walk up behind him and wrap his arms around his waist. He nuzzles close and starts to cry. Please, he thinks. Please. They’re still for a moment, and then Dean’s twisting, turning, touching.
“You’re all right,” Dean says, stroking the nape of his neck.
A club. They’re sitting close in a booth, Jerry clowning, half-crawling over the table to get to the fella opposite, Dean quiet and thoughtful, chuckling, interjecting jokes, but mostly still, watching. Watching me, he thinks, vibrating, glowing, puffing up like a balloon. He glances at his partner, beams, before turning to his audience again. Something hooks into his belt and hauls him back, and then Dean’s arm slips round his waist. He’s talking now, taking charge while Jerry’s frozen, brain stuttering, whirring, focused on his arm, the fingers stroking lightly at his hip.
“Too far away,” Dean says, softly, secretly.
A stairwell. Somewhere. Usually he knows, but Dean’s hands are in his jacket, making little things like geography less important by the second, making him squirm, making him whimper desperately, “I want you.” Dean stops. He leans away to study Jerry’s face. Oh God, he thinks, oh fuck. He’s ruined it. He’s ruined everything. Dean was being so nice, so kind, and now he’ll want to stop; those gentle hands have stilled on his waist, and Jerry needs them to move again. He manages to blurt, “I take it back.”
“Don’t,” Dean says and puts his tongue in Jerry’s mouth.
A bedroom. Jerry arches on the mattress, naked save his boxer shorts which tent dramatically. His partner’s mouth has been on him for over an hour. Not even my birthday! he thinks, delighted, delirious, giggling, wriggling under tongue and teeth and lips that trace along his thighs and hips and bump over prominent ribs, slip against a nipple, so unexpected and wonderful, ticklish, that Jerry cries out and has to grab Dean’s curls, focus on something else so he doesn’t finish early.
“Jer,” Dean says in his ear, fingers tugging chest hair. “Be good for me.” Permission. Jerry’s world explodes.
A suite. Dean’s lounging on the couch, trying to focus on John Wayne, on cowboys and Indians, on gunfights at the corral, but his eyes drift, a yawn threatens, and soon he’s dozing, lulled by bullets and hoofbeats. Not quite asleep, not enough at least to ignore the sweet soft tugging at his forelock, the slender fingers slipped into his curls, stroking, smoothing, swirling hair around their tips. And then a pause; he feels his partner hesitate. You don’t need to, he thinks and sighs beneath a feather-light kiss on his brow.
“Sorry,” Jerry says, but he sounds so peaceful.