Page 15

15

Henri

Luke

There’s a feral alley cat waiting for you in the hallway.

Distracted, I stand half undressed and stare down at my phone in confusion. I am very fond of Luke, but sometimes his jokes go over my head. This is one of those times. Looking up, I wait for Max’s reddish-brown head to pop out of the collar of his shirt.

“Max, are you able to translate this for me?”

I give him the phone, watching as his brow scrunches up and his lips move as he reads.

“Uhm. I got nothing on that one. Come on, let’s get changed, and go out and ask him. He should be waiting for me outside.”

Putting my phone down, I do my best to keep pace with Max, who is prone to dressing unusually fast. By the time we are leaving the locker room, I am actually a little out of breath again. There aren’t any messages from Atlas, and I do my best not to be too disappointed by that. He’d said he would try to come to the game, but he hadn’t actually fully committed. Max’s small huff of laughter pulls my eyes away from my phone.

“Feral alley cat,” he says, up-nodding toward the end of the hallway where Luke is waiting. I follow his line of sight and see Atlas standing across from Luke and doing his best to blend into the darkly painted wall behind him. Given his black jacket and dark hair, he is doing quite an admirable job of it. I can’t control the bloom of joy in my chest at the sight of him, or the smile that is birthed because of it.

“Hello, you,” Luke says to Max, pulling him into a hug.

Max melts into it, bag thumping to the ground as he drops it to wrap his arms around his boyfriend’s waist. Something that feels strangely like jealously burns through me at the sight. I want that. I want that so badly. Swallowing this down, I turn to find Atlas, whom I also want, watching them with the expression of someone suffering from a stomach cramp.

“Hello, Atlas.” I walk up to him, stopping as close as I dare. My fingers brush his, but I don’t try to initiate any further contact. He’ll only push me away.

“Hey,” he replies, clearing his throat and giving me an obvious once-over. “Nice suit.”

I smile. “Thank you. I am happy you are here, thank you for coming.”

“It’s no big deal.” He shrugs this off, just like he tries to shrug off everything he does that might be considered a kindness. I decide that tonight I am too tired to let him get away with it .

“It is a big deal to me. I do not have family here, nor many friends that are not already on the team. Nobody comes to watch me play, Atlas. So, thank you. I wish I could explain better, but you are not so skilled at speaking German.”

He smiles at me—quick and barely there, but I catch it all the same. When he runs a hand through his black hair, scattering the lights reflecting on it, I catch that too. I wonder if anyone has ever told him he is beautiful before.

“I saw that goal you scored,” he tells me. “Oh, and how’s your knee?”

“My knee?” I look down at my knees, which, to my knowledge, Atlas has never seen before. I always have my pants on when he is around. “Fine, thank you. How are your knees?”

He huffs an impatient breath and fights against the smile I know wants to come out. I don’t even mind if he’s smiling at my expense. I just like to see it on his face.

“My knees didn’t have surgery over the summer,” he says snippily.

“Oh, I see.” I glance over at Luke, guessing that he is the culprit for Atlas learning this little tidbit. “It is fine. I feel a little sore, but that is to be expected after a game. I will ice it when I get back home.”

“Let’s go, then.” Atlas waves a hand, and without waiting for me, turns to walk toward the exit. I follow, tugged along in his wake like he commands a gravitational pull.

“See you, Vas!” Luke calls, voice echoing in the concrete hallway.

Atlas is scowling as he holds the door for me and we start walking toward the dorms. I could drive, but I usually enjoy the short walk to the rink to clear my head and warm up my muscles. I’m even more glad I didn’t drive now that Atlas is here with me. The walk back will take three times as long as driving would have.

“What’s the deal with that Luke guy?” he asks.

“Deal?”

“He seemed to know a lot of information about us fooling around. He also seemed to think we were dating.”

“I did not tell anyone that I like to kiss you, if that is what you are meaning,” I say patiently. “But Luke is…how can I say it? Emotionally intelligent? He is good at understanding people. He is also in love and I think perhaps this changes the way he sees other couples.”

Atlas snorts and shakes his head. “In love. In college? Come on—he has to know that relationship won’t last.”

I sigh, adjusting my bag to sit higher on my shoulder. “Atlas, you must be very tired from being so distrustful.”

Grabbing my arm, he pulls me to a stop. I face him, standing so close that I can see the light from the lamps that line the sidewalk reflecting in his dark eyes. He leaves his hand on my arm and I curse the presence of my suit jacket. I wish I could feel his skin against my own.

“I’m not a cynic, I’m a realist,” he corrects.

“In this, you are wrong. Max and Luke are strong, and happy. They will get married. They will have babies one day, and perhaps I will get to be a godparent if I am lucky. Many things may change, but they will have each other, always. I know this. That is real.”

Atlas doesn’t answer. Mouth pinched, he shakes his head and drops his hand from my arm. He looks disappointed, like I’ve let him down in some fundamental way. When he takes a step away from me, I know I’ve lost him for the night.

“I’d better head home,” he says.

“Okay. Thank you for coming.” He’s already walking away, shoulders rigid beneath his black jacket. Before he gets too far away, he spins around to face me and walks backward.

“Don’t forget to ice your knee,” he calls.

I do not hear from Atlas the first three days of break. Then, on the fourth day, not only do I hear from him, but I get an invitation to his house. I’ve never been to his house before—we always meet up in my dorm—and it feels momentous that he is inviting me over. I take special care with my appearance, making sure my hair is lying properly and getting rid of the two-day beard I had been cultivating. I even fight the urge to wear something nice, and instead put on a pair of sweatpants and a hockey shirt.

Atlas, I know, will be very proud of me for bypassing the polo shirts.

Before heading to Atlas’, I stop at a local grocery store and wander the aisles a bit. I am not sure what, if anything, I should be bringing, but it feels wrong to show up empty-handed. Suddenly inspired, I gather the ingredients for old-fashioned stollen. Atlas lives in a house, which means he has access to a full kitchen and I can make him something homemade instead of bringing store bought.

When I pull up to his house, I take note of the empty driveway. He hadn’t told me whether any of his roommates were staying here for the holidays. Eyeing my bags of groceries, I do a mental tally of how many people I could potentially feed with the recipe I have in mind. Deciding that if it comes down to it, I can just go without eating, I get out of the car, gather my bags, and walk up to the front door.

Atlas opens it and I lose several beats of my heart. He’s wearing a loose pair of black sweatpants and a shirt that says Glazed and Confused with a picture of a pottery wheel. His feet are bare and his hair is a little spikier than I’ve seen it. He smells like cinnamon.

“You are very handsome,” I tell him, unable to control my tongue. His eyes widen a little bit. I love how dark his eyelashes are, and how he always looks like he’s wearing eyeliner. If he ever does wear eyeliner, I will probably die.

“So are you when you aren’t wearing a polo shirt,” he replies, lips twitching like he wants to smile. I beam. I knew he’d notice.

He steps back to let me inside, watching as I deposit my shopping bags carefully on the floor and shrug out of my jacket. He takes it from me and throws it over an overflowing coatrack in the foyer. That done, we stand there, awkwardly staring at one another. Three days without contact suddenly seems like an insurmountable distance.

“Fuck it,” Atlas murmurs, and puts a hand against my cheek before leaning up and kissing me.

He has impossibly soft lips. I noticed the first time he kissed me, and I’ve noticed every time since. They are probably the only soft thing about him. Sighing, I lean into him and let myself fall into the sensation. Carefully, I put my hand high on his hip, spreading my fingers wide and enjoying the heat of his body through the thin shirt.

“You’re a good student,” he murmurs, pulling back only far enough to whisper against my lips.

“Thank you,” I mutter back. “I have a good teacher.”

His laugh is little more than a huff of air against my mouth, but I can feel it all the way to my toes. Still with one hand on his hip, I mimic the way he’s touching my cheek and put my other hand against his face. Gently, I pull him back in and kiss him.

When he steps closer to me and his stomach brushes mine, I feel the first spiky tendrils of heat in my pelvis. Surprised, I groan, and feel Atlas’ fingers curl more firmly around the back of my neck. Of all the times we’ve made out in my dorm room, not once have I gotten an erection. Evidently, today is the day that changes.

“Atlas.” I lean my head back just far enough to see his face. “I apologize, but I am getting hard.”

He laughs. The sort of full-belly laugh I’m accustomed to hearing from Luke, and have never heard from Atlas. Leaning his forehead against my shoulder, he drops his hand away from my face.

“Only you,” he mutters, before straightening up and stepping back. “Do you want to keep going and see where that leads?” He gestures to my crotch and I have to fight the urge to cover myself with a hand. “Or were you planning something else?”

He looks pointedly at the groceries.

“Oh, yes. I am going to make you stollen, if you are agreeable?”

“Sure, Henri. Whatever the fuck that is.” He snatches up a couple of the bags and walks away. Grabbing the rest, I follow him. He leads me to the kitchen and drops the bags on the counter in a way that makes me flinch. Luckily, there is nothing breakable in the pair that he was carrying. Hopping up on the island, he kicks his feet and watches as I put the rest down with infinitely more care.

“I was not sure what you had in mind when you texted, but if you are hungry, I thought perhaps I could make you stollen. It is a German dish. I think you may like it. ”

“I didn’t have anything in mind,” he says, shrugging. “Just thought we could hang out. Maybe watch a Christmas movie, and I could blow you if you wanted.”

“You watch Christmas movies?” I ask, because this is easily the strangest thing about what he’s just said.

“Sometimes. I like The Grinch with Jim Carrey.” He eyes me. “Want to make this stollen shit, watch the movie, and then get back to the blowjob? Or maybe I could eat your ass.”

“Sometimes I think you are only saying things to make me embarrassed,” I tell him, pulling ingredients from the bags and lining them up on the counter next to where he is sitting.

“Nope, not this time. I’ve never eaten anyone out before—well, not a dude, anyway—but I have a feeling you’ve got the cleanest butt around, so.” He raises his eyebrows suggestively. I don’t argue, because, yes, I do make sure I shower thoroughly.

“I am not sure, Atlas. I don’t know what I want to do,” I tell him honestly. I’ve never had fantasies about anyone giving me pleasure like that. Never had fantasies about sex at all, before meeting Atlas. Now, all of my ideas usually center around how I would go about making Atlas feel good. There have been a few nights recently where I wondered what it would be like to give him a blowjob.

“Okay. No worries,” he says. I smile at him. He’s prickly and argumentative almost all the time, but he never pushes me to do things. For weeks all we’ve done is kiss, and not once has he tried to hurry me along or made me feel badly about moving slow. About not feeling aroused or wanting to have sex.

It takes me a bit to find everything I need in the kitchen. Nothing seems to be kept where it should be, nor do they have the full array of utensils, but I make do. All the while I am puttering around, Atlas doesn’t move from his perch on the counter. Every now and then he’ll inquire about what I’m looking for and attempt to point me in the right direction, but mostly he sits in silence and watches. I take care to do as many things right next to him as I can, touching his leg and feeling his toes brush against me.

“Okay, we must let this rise for three quarters of an hour and then it shall go in the oven,” I tell Atlas. He nods, hopping down from the counter and skirting around the edge of the island.

“Movie time,” he says.

I follow him into the living room, which is a lot cleaner than I would have expected from a house of college students. He pats the back of the couch and I take the hint, sitting in that seat and watching as he gets the movie queued up. Instead of sitting down with space between us, as I expected him to, he flops down so close to me, he’s practically in my lap. Automatically, I put an arm out to steady him and he moves in even closer.

“Do you want me to put German subtitles on?” he asks. I stare at him, shocked by the offer. Misreading my silence, he gestures to the TV and continues. “I just mean, maybe you prefer German to English and it would be nice to watch the movie that way. I know you can understand the movie in English, I wasn’t?—”

“I know what you meant,” I say quietly, pressure sitting heavy in my chest at the offer. It’s a strange thing to explain to people, how much one misses speaking their native language when they are in a different country—a different flavor of homesickness that is often more potent for me, as I struggle with English. Not a day goes by, when I am here, that I do not wish for more opportunities to talk to someone in German. “Yes, please, thank you, Atlas. That is thoughtful of you to offer.”

His cheeks are tinged with pink as he turns his face away and fiddles with the remote, turning on the subtitles. I swallow down any further comments about how that little bit of kindness makes me feel, knowing how uncomfortable it would make him. Instead, I put my arm around him as he settles back against me, giving him a small squeeze.

We’re side by side with legs and hips pressed together. A few minutes in, he relaxes his head, cheek resting against my shoulder and arm draped across my thigh. I am not sure if he realizes it, but we are absolutely cuddling right now.

We mostly stay silent through the movie, but every now and then Atlas chuckles dryly. It makes me smile every time. After forty-five minutes have passed, I sigh regretfully and loosen my hold on him.

“I must go put the bread in the oven,” I tell him as I extricate myself. “Stay there, I will be right back.”

I move a little faster than I usually would, worried that he’ll be seated on the opposite side of the room once I get back, and there will be no possibility of further snuggling. Luckily, he’s right where I left him. Retaking my seat and sliding as close to him as I can, I set a timer on my phone and rest it on the coffee table.

“About half of an hour,” I tell Atlas, who simply restarts the movie in silence. This time, when he lays his head on my shoulder, I rest my cheek against the top of his head. Apparently, his lips are not the only soft thing about him.

“Can you imagine how uncomfortable all that makeup would be,” he murmurs, eyes on the screen. “And the prosthetics. ”

I eye Jim Carrey’s furry green face and nod. “Indeed. I would not be liking it, I think. Atlas?”

“Mm?”

“You smell like a cinnamon roll.”

He snorts, adjusting his head, which rubs his hair across my face and sends my pulse skittering in paroxysms of joy.

“All the body washes and shampoos at the store are holiday scented. I think it’s meant to smell like Christmas, not a pastry.”

When the timer goes off, I leave him once more on the couch and head into the kitchen to finish the bread. I’m surprised when Atlas trails after me, hopping back up on the counter and watching as I prepare the toppings.

“That smells fucking bomb,” he compliments. I smile at him and he returns it, very slightly.

“We shall have to let it cool for a little while, before we put the glaze on.”

“Oh yeah?” he asks, fisting a hand into the front of my shirt and tugging me to stand between his spread legs. I look up into his face, hands on the counter bracketing his hips. “What shall we do while we wait?”