Page 20 of Something Like Winter

Tim lifted his head. “But you said—”

“Yeah, well, I say a lot of things.” Ben laughed and started kneading harder, forcing Tim to put his head back down.

Maybe Ben lacked experience, but the massage sure felt good! He worked the area between Tim’s shoulder blades next, then squeezed Tim’s deltoids a few times, slowly kneading his way toward the lower back. Tim shifted in the seat, his shorts tight.

Fuck.

He was hard or very nearly there. Another guy was touching him, and his stupid dick had responded. Part of him was tempted to roll over. He knew it would make Ben happy but—holy shit!—what did this say about him?

“All right,” Tim said. “That’s enough.”

Ben kept massaging.

“Fucking stop!”

Ben’s hands lifted away. “Sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“No.” Tim kept his head turned away from Ben, his line of vision nearly level with the beer can dripping condensation on the patio stones. Beyond, the flame of a Tiki torch danced, sending strange shadows across the grass. Tim scowled. Maybe things had gone too far. He pushed himself up on his elbows. “I’m tired,” he said, without looking at Ben. “You should go.”

“Oh. Okay.” Ben stood up, but he didn’t go anywhere. What did he expect? To be walked to the door? When Tim didn’t move, still didn’t look at him, Ben took the hint. The sound of his footsteps went to the house. Tim heard the sliding glass door open, but didn’t hear it close. He could picture Ben standing there, looking back at him and wondering what he had done wrong. He must have been right, because Ben spoke.

“So, do you still want me to come by tomorrow?”

No! Of course not. That’s why I’m sending you away! But Tim couldn’t bring his lips to shape these words. “Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

When Tim heard the car drive away a few minutes later, he got up and struggled with his crutches. Once inside he would jack off. He hadn’t done that since he was injured, which was crazy. Pent up hormones could make just about anything sound like a good idea.

Tomorrow would be different. Tim would start taking care of the house himself, become self-sufficient again. Ben was a good guy, but he wasn’t his freaking girlfriend. Tim wouldn’t punish Ben for what was his own fault, but after this weekend, playtime was over.

Chapter Six

Ben showed up the next day with an armful of groceries. Tim followed him out to the driveway, determined to help carry in the rest, though Ben wouldn’t let him. Back in the kitchen, he helped put everything away. Ben didn’t stay long after that, having promised to eat dinner with his family. A couple of hours later, Ben called, anger in his voice.

“My stupid sister figured out I was skipping and ratted me out.” “Oh.” Tim’s response wasn’t the best, but he had mixed emotions. The night wouldn’t be as much fun without Ben, but maybe it wouldn’t be as confusing either.

“It’s not just today,” Ben explained. “I won’t be able to come over all weekend.”

“What can you do, man? That’s life.”

They didn’t stay on the phone long after that. Tim microwaved some frozen burritos, then sat at the dining room table and ate without really tasting them. His head was buzzing from too many thoughts that, despite his best effort, kept circling back to Ben.

After dinner Tim grabbed his sketchbook and went to the back patio, lighting the torches and trying to recreate the mood from yesterday. Somehow it just wasn’t the same, but he sat there and drew a little. Next he wrote, trying to get his thoughts down and becoming increasingly aggravated. Then he saw the butterfly fluttering through the air with lazy ease, as if life had always been simple and without consequence. Thinking of Ben again, Tim switched to poetry, and the words finally flowed, his feelings easier to express in the abstract, especially when wrapped up in Spanish. Tim found the language beautiful, the words exotic enough to be almost mystical, their power undiminished by constant exposure.

His mind and soul satisfied, Tim slowly crutched upstairs and flipped through his old porn magazines. He relieved more tension that way, although he felt frustrated with the familiarity of the images, how all the women with fake breasts and men with pumped-up gym bodies looked the same. At least being upstairs meant he could sleep in his own bed again, which was ten times more comfortable than the couch.

Tim’s dreams that night weren’t restful. He found himself in Corey’s room again, except bizarrely, Ben was sitting there talking to him. But he wasn’t really speaking. He was singing, every word a melody. When the dream reached its climax, Ben sang the same words over and over again until they became a song with one lyrical line:You can kiss me, if you want. You can kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, if you waaaant.Finally Tim gave into temptation and leaned forward, jolting awake the moment their lips touched.

Enough was enough. Tim called Krista later that day.

* * * * *

Ben had once said the cast would be good for getting sympathy. As it turned out, he was right. Tim was back on the leather couch, but now the slender form next to him kept giggling and saying “Timmy!” in chastising tones. He loved kissing Krista’s neck to make her squeal. More than that, he loved how easily he got hard in response to this, the doubts about his sexuality now distant.

“Let me sign it!” Krista said.

“And then?” Tim asked.

“Um…”