School Reunion, part 6 (Patreon)

The next few weeks passed gently, with each day very much the same as the one before: 

I would wake in the morning, usually before Andrew (although the fat man beat me to the punch once or twice), slipped out of bed, and made my now-traditional fried breakfast. Sometimes it was proceeded by cereal, or - on colder, wetter days - by thick porridge, made with double cream. The sound of me in the kitchen, or the smells of cooking bacon and sausage, invariably led Andrew down the stairs like Pavlov's Dog. He had brought an old, grey towelling robe from home, very large but obviously bought when he was much smaller, which just about wrapped around his gargantuan gut; the rope-belt had less and less give in it every day. I found myself hoping for a day to come when it would burst open mid-breakfast. 

During the first few days, Andrew followed breakfast with a nap in the recliner - he still suffered from nightmares most nights, sometimes more than one - and he needed as much rest as he could get. I liked to take a few minutes to watch him sleep, to watch his belly’s mountainous curve slowly rise and fall, to imagine all that food converting into more and more fat....but mostly, I just enjoyed looking at the beloved, bearded face of the man I was falling deeply, helplessly in love with. 

I also took these moments to catch up on cleaning chores, or pop out for groceries - Andrew's anxiety would get worse if I wasn't in the house when he awoke from his nap. Andrew was still terribly fragile emotionally – more than I’d have believed possible when he first moved in - and sudden breakdowns into helpless tears weren’t uncommon. 

For the first week Andrew would invariably sleep through to lunch, which was usually something filling but easy - pasta, burgers, or Caesar Salad smothered in rich creamy sauce if Andrew expressed a hankering for something "lighter". In the afternoons, after a short post-prandial nap to digest, we’d sit together to watch a movie, or play cards, or just talk; whatever it took to keep Andrew from dwelling on his problems. I made sure dinner was always a special occasion - a candle-lit meal at the table, with several huge courses, wine and beer at hand, and always a choice of tasty, rich desserts. I really enjoyed cajoling Andrew to eat until he was stuffed, and Andrew proved a more-than-willing disciple at the Altar of Gluttony. After a sit-down, and some television or a radio show, I would draw his bath, bring him a cigar and a pint, and let him relax in sybaritic luxury until it was time for bed, and sleep...and the whole thing started all over again.

In many ways, I had never worked so hard; but truth be told, I’d also never been so happy and content in my life. 

By the second week, Andrew's need for sleep started to lessen, implying that his condition was improving somewhat. His morning naps were shorter, so he filled the time by reading, or watching television. After the lunchtime nap, if the weather was good enough, I’d accompany Andrew for short walks around the neighbourhood, or drive him to the nearby countryside, returning at once if Andrew's hands started to shake from anxiety. As the third week commenced, Andrew was becoming much more like his old self, and started demanding that I eat more and more at mealtimes - which had, by this time, started to feature takeaways again for the first time. Andrew even asked if we could go out to the local pub for a few pints and a meal at lunchtimes, an excellent sign as far as I was concerned. Slowly, inevitably, my weight - which had remained fairly stable for the previous fortnight - started to creep up again. Our conversations became much more animated and wide-ranging during this period, and I found my attraction to Andrew growing even stronger...but week four forced me to face a problem that I’d been putting off; my mounting backlog of work. I simply didn’t dare leave it any longer, for fear of losing clients.

After the usual big breakfast, I left Andrew downstairs with a book and the radio for company while I entered my office upstairs. I had no qualms about having abandoned my work to look for, then care for, the big Welshman, but falling this far behind was definitely not good for a relatively new practice, and I had plenty of work to catch up on. I found myself slightly distracted whenever I moved my chair too close to the desk and bumped my belly against it – which happened much more easily than it used to. (Getting plump, Tommy boy. Or rather, getting nice and plump). This led to pleasant daydreams about quietly growing older, and ever fatter, alongside a zeppelin-like Andrew…and then quiet cursing from me, as I realised that I’d lost 15 minutes of work-time because of my woolgathering. Eventually, having reached a natural break, I yawned and stretched…and noticed with a start that it was 2:30 pm – way past lunchtime! (Andrew must be starved! Why didn’t I set an alarm?) Running downstairs, I was struck by the delicious scent of pizza wafting up towards me. I entered the lounge to find a slightly guilty-looking Andrew chomping a large slice of pepperoni pizza from a near-empty extra-large box, with a completely empty one on the floor beside him. 

“Well! What’s all this, hmm?”

Andrew looked suitably embarrassed. “Ah, well, the thing is – it got to 12:30, and I was starving hungry, and I didn’t want to disturb you, so….”

“So you ordered pizza? Tsk, and with all that food in the freezer and the cupboards already! Ah, well, my own fault for leaving you alone for too long, I suppose. Did you at least order some for me?”

Andrew beamed, and picked up a third, medium-sized pizza box from the floor. “I did! And to show how much I love you, bach,” he grinned evilly, “I only ate two slices of yours!”

I simply couldn’t help it. Andrew’s face was hysterical. I grabbed my sides, and laughed and laughed and laughed….

After lunch, I felt torn – I really didn’t like abandoning Andrew, but I also really needed to work. Surprisingly, it was Andrew who came up with a solution.

“Why not let me help you?”

“You?” I couldn’t keep the surprise from my voice.

“Yes, of course ‘me’, you daft prat!” the older man said with mock indignation – at least, I thought it was mock. “I was a Maths teacher – your Maths teacher! – for a very long time, if you remember. Old and blubbery and broken-down I may be, but I can still calculate Pi to fifty places faster than you can. While I’ve no great skills as a high-and-mighty accountant, look you, I’m betting I can make a passable assistant with a bit of coaching.”

I rubbed my chin, musing. (It’s tempting, certainly, but) - “I don’t know…you’re supposed to be resting and recovering, Andy. I don’t want to take advantage -”

 “Sod that for a game of soldiers!” Andrew’s mouth had taken on a mulish cast. “Retired I may be, but I need more stimulation than daytime telly to stop my brains dribbling out of my ears!” He grabbed my hand in his own meaty paw. “Tom, cariad, I owe you more than I can ever repay, but this is something I can do to start balancing the scales. How about letting me have a go?”

I smiled in gracious defeat. 

“’Never argue with a fat Welshman’, as my sainted Mother would have said if she’d ever met you….all right, Davies, you win. I’ll teach you what you need to know and set you some tasks. I warn you, though – I’ll be a hard taskmaster, just like you were to me. Revenge is a dish best served cold, mwa-ha-ha!”

We both giggled. Then Andrew said, slyly, “and speaking of food, which we weren’t…how about I take you out for a slap-up feed tonight? I’m…I’m much better than I was a few days back, honest, and that’s entirely down to you, lad. I’m no great shakes as a cook, myself – it’s why I started eating out every night in the first place – but what I can do is pick the best places to eat. I’ve got somewhere in mind; a bit fancier than the usual, so jacket and tie, if you please. What do you say? Do it for me?” He flashed kitten-eyes at me; ridiculous to see on such an old, fat, hairy man as this, but it worked anyway.

I sighed. “Put that way, how can I refuse? Thank you, Andy, I’ll be honoured to have dinner with you tonight. I just hope I still have a nice shirt that fits!” 

“You and me both, bach, you and me both!” We both rubbed our bellies and laughed. 

At 7pm, I climbed out of a soapy and decadent bath - the faint, pleasant aroma of cigar-smoke still permeating the bathroom, making my cock very hard beneath the bubbles - towelled myself off and dressed in my best suit, a charcoal-grey silk one I had bought with my first pay check after I passed my accountancy exams. The trousers were a little tight around the waistband, but pushing them down below the waist made them comfortable enough...and also made my baby belly look quite a bit rounder. I donned a blue silk shirt - again, slightly snug across my fleshy stomach - and topped it off with my Cambridge University tie. I examined myself in the full-length mirror mounted on my wardrobe. (Not bad. Not bad at all!) I turned sideways, and slowly ran my hands over the definite bump of fat around my middle. (Nice. The suit makes me look smart, the belly makes me look like a real man. Yes, I think I'll do).

Dressing complete, I headed downstairs to show Andrew. The big fella had taken his bath first, and chose to dress downstairs. (It feels like going on a first date), I thought happily. (I wonder if he'll present me with a corsage?) I opened the lounge door, and saw Andrew sitting with his back to me, watching the television. I coughed slightly, and the ex-teacher jumped up and spun around. Andrew was wearing faun trousers, a pair of dark braces stretched across his belly, a white dress shirt, and a red bow tie. The trousers were obviously several years old and much too tight, but Andrew had used the selfsame trick I had, pushing them below his belly - which, as a result, looked so big and heavy and - well - sexy that my breath caught in my throat. The shirt fit snugly over Andrew's gut, and even before we’d eaten anything the buttons were starting to gape. I noted a jacket matching the trousers hanging over the back of the sofa out of the corner of my eye, but most of my attention was on the vision of corpulent loveliness before me.

“…Wow," I said, eloquently.

"You took the words out of my mouth, bach," said Andrew smiling fatuously. "You look very handsome indeed, my boy, oh yes. I shall be the proudest man in the place to be seen with you."

"No, I think that honour goes to me, tonight," I replied, feeling a slight flush heating my neck and noting the same in Andrew's cheeks. 

"Really?” Andrew looked a little anxious. “I haven't worn this old thing in about four years, but I realised I'd nothing else, and -"

"Andy, Andy. You look magnificent." I placed a hand gently on Andrew's shoulder. "Listen to us, like a couple of girls ready for their School Prom!"

Andrew laughed, and the awkward moment passed.

At 7:45, the taxi dropped us off at Chez Martinique, the only 4-star restaurant in town, and we approached the Maitre d's desk. 

"Good evening, gentlemen. Name, please?"

"Davies, table for two."

"Certainly, M'seur Davies, your table is ready. If you and your son would like to come this way?"

Andrew spluttered at the back of the departing Maitre d’, and moved as if to correct him, but my indelicate snort of laughter stopped him.

"And what, may I ask, is so funny, you chortling fool?"

"Nothing, nothing, it's just perfect, that's all. Come on, "Daddy", we don't want to keep him waiting, do we?"

Still chuckling, I followed after the Maitre d’. Andrew rolled his eyes, sighed, and joined me. 

The Maitre d’ seated us in a secluded spot, and presented us with menus before walking away. While Andrew perused his menu, I took the opportunity to look around.

"This is a really swanky place, Andy. Not your usual speed, is it?"

"Not so much, but I've been here, oh, once or twice, mostly when I first arrived. The food's a bit special for everyday, but then tonight's supposed to be special, yes?"

"It's certainly feeling that way,"" I agreed. "Andy, I thought these places were generally booked up for months ahead. How in the world did you manage to get a table with four hours' notice?"

Andrew grinned like the cat who got the cream. "Look around you, bach. Notice the decor. What do you see?"

"Umm...chandeliers? Delicate-looking tables? Curtains? What am I supposed to be seeing?"

“Antiques, you philistine! The vases on pedestals, the pictures, the chandeliers - all right, you got that one - they're all antiques. The current owner took over about a month after I opened my shop. He wanted some proper antiques from a certain period to set the ambiance - I'll not bore you with all the details - and he thought he'd try me out. We discussed the matter a few times over a pint or five -"

“-figures-"

"- and he set me the task. Took me the better part of five months to source it all. By God, that was fun! We had quite a few meetings here, naturally, which is why I know the place. By the time I finished the job, he was ecstatic, and generously said that any time I wanted to eat here, I had a table ready and waiting for me. This is the first time I've taken him up on it."

"Andrew, that is a fantastic story! How come you haven't come here in all that time since?"

Andrew smiled at me, with adorable shyness. "Never had anyone I wanted to share it with, lad. Not until now, anyway."

I smiled back, equally as shyly. The mood shifted to something more normal as a waiter arrived with a bottle of Champagne, expertly opened it, poured two glasses, and placed the bottle in a bucket of ice on the table. Before he could leave, Andrew stopped him. "Ah, waiter? There's some mistake, I think. I didn't order this."

The waiter smiled at him brightly. "On the house, sir, standing orders from the owner. You and your friend are our most important guests tonight. Whatever you order is already paid for."

Andrew was aghast. "Oh, see, now, that's kindness, but it's too much -"

The waiter grinned a bit cheekily. "Your pardon, sir, but the boss told us you'd say that. He also said, ‘The Welshman's got a proper appetite on him, so whatever he orders, double the quantity.’ Apparently, he expects you to keep the kitchen and the waiters on our toes tonight!"

The waiter practically skipped away in delight before Andrew could comment further. "Oh, that bastard! He's been waiting for years to embarrass me like this!"

I was sniggering at his discomfort. "He's pegged you properly, all right! You're a rock star to these people. I think the waiter's in seventh heaven that he gets to serve the famous Welshman!"

"Aye, maybe." Andrew was slightly mollified. "Although I bet he actually called me “Fat Welshman"."

"The truth's the truth, old fella. Of course, you know this means you're going to have to put on a real show tonight..."

"You can stop grinning, you Cheshire Cat, you. You're my guest tonight, so if I'm going to pig out, then so are you!"

I laughed again, and picked up my glass, to propose a toast. Andrew did the same. "To you, oh Great Fat Welshman."

"And to you, too, sonny boy."

The meal was definitely one for the annals: when we eventually tried to order, the waiter proceeded to completely ignore our instructions and brought double-sized portions of the entire menu!  

We began with Soufflé Suissesse (“Cheese Souffle Cooked in Double Cream”) and Saumon Mariné au Citron Aigre-Doux Gelée à la Vodka (“Marinated Var Salmon with Lemon and Vodka Jelly”), followed by Filet de Maigre Parfumé au Ras-el-Hanout Fenouil et Riz Rouge de Camargue (“Stone Bass and Pastilla Scented with Arabian Spices and Fennel, Red Rice and Meat Jus”); Coquilles St. Jacques Grillées et Minestrone de Palourdes (“Grilled Scallops with a Clam Minestrone”); Boudin Noir, Oeuf Frit, Salade d'Asperges Crues et Chutney de Tomate Epicée (“Black Pudding, Crumbed Egg, Crackling Asparagus Salad and Spicy Tomato Chutney”); and Filet de Boeuf Grillé et Purée d'Epinards Poêlée de Champignons (“Grilled Fillet of Scottish Beef, Wild Mushrooms, in a Red Wine Shallot Sauce”). After a brief rest, and a limone sorbet as a digestif, came a selection of French and British farmhouse cheeses, and Millefeuille aux Framboises et Gianduja (“Crispy Layers of Pastry, Raspberries and Praline Flavoured Chocolate”). Each course was accompanied by a different, specially-selected wine from the cellars. 

I ate some of every dish, at least, and did my level best to make some kind of dent in the humongous portions, but by the cheese course I was profusely sweating and red-faced. Andrew ate perhaps four times the amount I did, but even his prodigious appetite started to flag, and he too was looking pink and flushed. His shirt buttons were pulling so tightly against his swollen corporation that I began to fear they might all go at once, spraying the restaurant with machine-gun fire; but then again, my own buttons weren’t doing much better. Finally, the waiter - followed by the entire kitchen staff, wide-eyed at actually seeing the magnificent trencherman they've heard about and now cooked for - brought out Café et Petits Fours. I couldn’t help myself; I groaned audibly, but Andrew just chuckled - then hiccupped. "Thank goodness they didn't bring out the ‘wafer-thin mints!’ He snorted. "The way I feel right now, I could easily do a ‘Mr. Creosote’ all over the restaurant!" 

Sore as I was, I couldn’t help but laugh (then groan again – it honestly hurt when I laughed). At least the hot coffee soothed the ache in my poor overstuffed gut. I popped one petit four in my mouth to show willing, then pushed the rest towards Andrew.

"You are joking, boy!"

"Hey, I'm not the famous Fat Welshman, am I?"

The waiter, however, finally took pity on us. He shooed the kitchen staff away, and removed the petits-fours...returning moments later with a neat white box. "I thought you might like them 'to go'", he explained. "Just in case you get peckish in the night?" 

Andrew just smiled and ruffled the waiter's hair. True to the waiter's word earlier, no bill was presented, and any attempt to tip the staff was simply brushed off. The Maitre d', now all smiles, shook our hands and told us he would look forward to our next visit. The few diners remaining (it was nearly 1am) stared at the two hugely-overstuffed men staggering out - most of the women with visible disgust, but more than a few of the men with outright admiration. A taxi was already waiting for us, collected us at the door; as soon as Andrew clambered in and flopped into the back seat, the inevitable happened - and a total of five shirt buttons exploded from his belly, plinking musically against the partition-window. Full as I was, I managed with effort to pick them up off the floor. I decided to add them to my collection – trophies of my well-fed friend. 

When we arrived at my house (weary and extremely drunk) we helped each other stagger to the front door, spent three minutes fumbling with the key, and practically fell into the hallway. Andrew collapsed onto the sofa, causing the springs to "ping" alarmingly; I dropped down next to him. For several moments there was no sound but heavy breathing, then I slowly turned to the enormous fleshy figure beside me and said, "I hesitate to ask...but would you care for a nightcap?"

“Ohhhhhhhhhh," was Andrew's only response.

"Let me just echo that," I said. "I think we finally hit your limit. I know we surpassed mine."

Andrew's deep, drunken voice rumbled in my ear. "My belly hurts. You know what I do want? A nice hot shower."

"Good idea. Me too. You said it first; up you go."

"Andrew's eyes narrowed, and his mouth quirked devilishly. "We could share, you know."

"W-what?"

"I mean, I will need an expert masseur to rub my big fat belly....”

"Only if you rub mine in return."

"Deal." It took several minutes to get upstairs - the wine was really hitting home now - and Andrew needed help in getting out of his too-tight clothing, but eventually we both stepped into the large shower cubicle. There was just enough room for both of us, but once the blessedly warm water started to flow, at least we become more slippery. I squeezed shower gel from the bottle hanging by my hand, and started to soap up the corpulent mass of fat and flesh, not to mention the sagging pecs at my eye-level, tangling my fingers in the silky hair covering the big man - and eliciting loud groans of pleasure. Soon, the entire front of him was a huge soapy mass. 

I signaled that it was now my turn to get ‘the treatment’. Rather than use his hands, Andrew started to rub his paunch against my own. My eyes widened at the sheer erotic pleasure of it, and unbidden my penis rose of its own accord, tickling the underside of Andrew's scrotum. The fat man grinned, lazily, and reached a soapy hand down to gently rub my cock and balls. 

“Care to return the favour, bach?"

I couldn’t believe this was happening. I tried to pinch myself to prove I wasn’t dreaming - but my skin was too slippery to get a proper hold, so I had to take it on trust. I felt myself quickly coming - and then felt Andrew's own seed splash against my underside a bare second before I let rip myself. My legs weakened and collapsed under me, as did Andrew’s; only the cramped quarters of the shower stopped us from dropping to the ground. Andrew looked into my eyes, whispered “Cariad" in my ear, and gave me a deep, passionate, moist kiss. 

I could barely breathe. I dearly wanted to take this further, but – dare I? I turned off the water and let Andrew exit first, helping him towel off, and letting him head to the bedroom before me. I delayed out of nerves, making sure I was completely dry, before following...and hearing loud, window-rattling snores from the mound of man under the duvet. (Of course). I shook my head, cursing my cowardice and laughing at my own folly, before slipping into the bed. A moment later I, too, was fast asleep.

We both woke at 3pm that afternoon. By common consent, the rest of the day was a lazy one, spent either in bed or on the sofa, and nothing more filling than buttered toast was consumed by either of us. I tried to talk to Andrew about our shower encounter, but it quickly became clear that everything beyond the taxi-ride home had been lost to drink. Frustrated, but also a little relieved, I elected not to enlighten Andrew about what had happened. We went back to bed at 8:30...and just before following Andrew upstairs, I peeked inside the box of petits-fours to find it – just as I expected - empty, except for a couple of crumbs.

The following day, I awoke refreshed (and finally comfortable) at 7:30 am. I got up, showered, and stepped onto my bathroom scale. Before Andrew had come into my life, I’d weighed a reasonable 12 stone 5 pounds - a bit above the ideal for my height, but quite acceptable for a man in his thirties with a sedentary career. I wanted to see what all these massive meals and boozy nights had done to me - my eyes, of course, showed a more rounded belly (even now, when it was empty), and plumper pectorals, but I wanted an accurate tally. The digital numbers flickered by, eventually settling on….15 stone 3 pounds. 

My eyes went wide, and involuntarily my hands flew to my fleshy middle, feeling the new, soft rolls of flab lodged there. Further examination proved it to me without any doubt - my thighs were thicker, neck broader, face rounder and with the beginnings of a double chin emerging, even if I didn't press my chin towards my chest. I pushed my belly out as far as I could, and gasped to realise that it blocked my view of my feet when I did so. 

(Nearly three stone. Nearly three stone in - what? Less than two months?) If I kept eating and drinking like this, I could crest 20 stone in about ten weeks! A small part of me was horrified - a knee-jerk part that screamed “Diet! Exercise!! Liposuction!!!” - but the rest of me was thrilled, excited, and trembling with anticipation, and it was this part that made me scurry downstairs and start to prepare one of my gut-busting fried breakfasts.

Andrew, of course, was woken by the smell of bacon, and we shared a pleasant breakfast together. He surely noticed the much larger serving of everything that I took that morning, but his only reaction was to smile secretly behind his mug of tea. 

After filling the dishwasher, I brought my books and laptop down from my office and spread them on the dining-table; I needed to catch up with my backlog, and if Andrew was determined to help me then I would need more space than a tiny bedroom to hold both myself and the fat Welshman. Andrew watched with interest. As I sat down and turned on the laptop, Andrew struck a theatrical pose and started reeling off numbers.

"Ahem. 3.14159265358979323846..."

"What on Earth are you doing, Andy?"

"Proving a point, lad. Told you I could calculate Pi faster than you."

"Bravo." I slow-clapped ironically. "You can eat pie faster than me, too. I'd have thought you'd be prouder of that achievement!"

"Get along with you!" The laughing Welshman swiped a hand at my head, which I ducked easily. "Do you want to show me what to do, then, or would you rather keep making fat-phobic jokes?"

"Fat-phobic? Me? Sorry, you must have mistaken me for somebody else..." I reached across to poke Andrew's round belly, then rubbed my own. Andrew smiled appreciatively. 

“Somebody's getting nice and plush, I see."

"Oh, like you can talk!"

"Aye, but remember, I've been working on mine for years. You've only had a couple of months or so."

"Just call me an apt pupil, then. Do you want to learn this stuff or not?"

Despite my private reservations, Andrew really was willing - and able - to learn the intricacies of accountancy, picking them up quickly enough that I was able to let him work unsupervised on a number of time-saving tasks by the end of the day. For the next three weeks, we worked pretty solidly (excluding time taken for cooking, eating, boozing, and visiting local eateries, naturally), and by the end of that time I was not only caught up with the backlog, but slightly ahead of my workload. As it was a Thursday night, I unilaterally declared a three-day holiday from work for both of us and cooked a huge roast turkey dinner with all the trimmings, plus a brandy-soaked trifle for afters. While Andrew filled and started the dishwasher, I relaxed on the sofa, lifting my t-shirt and stroking my lovely, fat, full tum, as had recently become my custom. Andrew entered while I was doing so, smiled affectionately, and seated himself - not on the recliner, like usual, but right next to me on the sofa, our thighs mashed together. He reached across and patted the ball of fat protruding from below my soft pecs. 

"Ah, Tommy, I look at that baby belly of yours and I feel great pride in my heart for my small role in helping you achieve it. You look like a proper man, with a proper paunch. What weight are you up to now?"

I smiled lazily. "First thing this morning, 15 stone 11 pounds. Now? I don't know, but I wouldn't be surprised if I topped 16 stone tonight."

Andrew gazed at my gut in wonder. "It looks so big on a little man like you. Big fellows like me have to work much harder." He patted and stroked his own mountain of flab like a favoured pet.

I joined him in his ministrations, loving as always the warmth and pliability of the bigger man's belly. "I wish we could weigh you, but you were already too heavy for my scale when I met you." 

"I know. I'm thinking a trip down to the weigh-station the lorries use might be necessary for this fellow." Another pat. Then silence, for several minutes.

Finally, I turned to my uncommonly quiet companion. "Something on your mind, Andy?"

"I'm thinking I need to get back to my little shop sometime soon. This has been a lovely holiday from the world, Tommo, but I cannot hide away from it forever."

"You want to leave?" I struggled to a sitting position, the pleasures of my flesh forgotten.

"Not exactly want to, no - I've loved it here, with you, and I'm happier here than anywhere else I've ever been -"

"Then what's the problem? Stay." I gently took Andrew's hand in mine. 

"Would that I could, but -" He turned to me with lines of concern furrowed on his forehead. "I'm worried about you."

"Huh?"

"Since you've moved to this little town, you've spent all your time working, or with me," Andrew explained. "I wouldn't give up one moment of that time for any money - not even that sodding auction - but you should be meeting more new friends." 

"I've got you, Andy. I need no-one else."

"I love you for saying that. But you deserve mates, and a really special woman. Just because my marriage was a failure, doesn't mean you shouldn't find a wife to love you -"

I regret what happened next, but the appalled shock of being told to find a wife – me, married to a woman? And being told this by Andrew, after all that had happened between us? – robbed my mind of sense and my tongue of all control. 

"Are you insane??" I was on my feet, my good mood utterly forgotten. "What the hell would I do with a wife? I'm as gay as you are!"

"You're - are you kidding me? Because it's not funny, if so." Andrew struggled to his own feet.

"No, I'm not joking, Andrew. I've known since my late teens. My first sexual encounter was a chap at University -"

"I don't believe this!" Andrew's face darkened alarmingly. He was as angry as I’d ever seen him. "I've lived in your house, slept in your bed, shared your life for weeks and you kept something that important from me? From me??” He stomped away from me across the room, then turned. "I shared my deepest, darkest secret with you. But you, you didn't care enough about me to -"

“Don't you turn this on me!” I was practically screaming now. "You were an emotional wreck when you came here. No way I was going to put more pressure on you while you were that fragile. I hoped something might happen naturally, but even when we pulled each other off in the shower -"

"We did what?"

"The night of that lovely dinner at the posh restaurant,” I said through gritted teeth. “In the shower after we got home. You fell asleep right after. And you were too fucking drunk to remember!!"

The silence was deafening. Andrew went white in the face. I was shaking uncontrollably. Seconds crawled by. Then: 

"I'm…I'm going to bed. I can't deal with this tonight," Andrew said quietly.

"Fine. I'll sleep down here so we can both cool off," I muttered, looking at my feet. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Andrew look stricken at that, but I didn't look up. I didn’t dare.

"Whatever you think best." The coldness in Andrew's voice cut like a knife into my heart. I waited until he heard the lounge door close, then sank to my knees and sobbed silently for the next fifteen minutes. When my tears finally slowed, I listened, but could hear nothing upstairs. Unable to bear this room anymore, I decided to go for a walk and grabbed my coat.

For an hour, I wandered aimlessly, my thoughts in turmoil. (I’ve lost him. I've ruined everything. I'll never see him again. I've lost him. I -)

I looked up, and realised I was standing right outside Andrew's little shop, dark and locked up now. I pressed my nose to the window, and my mind supplied the memory of seeing Andrew in there that first day...only it was Andrew as he was today, so much bigger and fatter and sexier than he was then, and Andrew turned and smiled at me and -

- and the image shattered. A fresh flurry of tears spilled from my eyes. I realised it had started to rain, so I trudged home in the dark and wet. The house was completely lightless and silent when I arrived. (Andrew must have dropped off). As I unlocked the door, I decided to sleep on the sofa as it was, not bothering to pull out the bed, rather than risk disturbing my...friend. I stepped softly towards the lounge in the dark, when -

"Tommy?"

The beloved voice of Andrew - querulous and anxious - wafted down the stairs. I didn’t – couldn’t – speak.

"Tommy, if that's you - please come upstairs. Please. I-I need you to come up. Please, Tommy?"

I sighed. (I can't cope with another row, not now…) but there was so much pain and need in Andrew's voice...how could I refuse?

Silently I ascended the stairs. There was a faint light coming from the bedroom now - a bedside lamp, probably. I pushed open the door...

...and saw, in the soft glow of lamplight, the beautiful, globular, hairy body of Andrew, naked, with the bedcovers pushed to the side. His left arm was behind his head, his right slowly rubbing circles on his belly in a very self-conscious attempt to be seductive. His face looked pained, anxious, inviting, and probably constipated all at once, as if he’d forgotten how to use it. I honestly didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so I did neither. (He's really inexperienced at this), I thought.

"What's this, Andrew?"

Andrew licked his lips slowly, in an obvious porn-move which actually did spark a sudden bark of laughter from me. I took a single step closer.

"I want you, Tommy. I...I need you. Here. With me. I love you. Do you...do you want to?" The fear on his face - of rejection - was too much for me to withstand. I dove on top of him and smothered his bearded face with kisses, before moving down and doing the same with his moobs, his chest, and his enormous, glorious, perfect paunch. As I did, Andrew massaged my head and the back of my neck with his strong fingers. I rose to my feet, and shucked out of my clothes like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis. I sank into the prone Andrew's waiting arms, and felt our swollen guts squish together as I plunged my tongue into the mouth of my dearest friend, my dearest love. 

(At last).

There was distant thunder, and rain pattering on the window. The wall clock showed 3am as I lay cradled in the big, soft, strong arms of my lover, my head pillowed on one soft breast, the fingers of my left hand sketching large circles on the soft belly pressed against me. (I could die happy right now, right this minute), I thought, (or I could stay in this position for the rest of my life). I had never felt so contented, so…complete. Andrew and I brought each other to climax three times: the first fumbling, frantic, inexperienced; the second stronger, more confident; the last gentle, soft, filled with a comforting lassitude. I could hear Andrew's rumbling breath in my ear. Then:

"Tommy?"

"Here, love." I felt a squeeze from the arm holding me.

"I love to hear that."

"I love to say that."

"Do you really love me, Tommy? Old, weathered and blubbery as I am?"

"After the last two hours, do you really have to ask me that?"

Andrew chuckled briefly. "It seems like a dream. I'm afraid I'll wake up and you'll be gone."

"Not me. Not ever." I snuggled deeper into the pillowy fat of my love's side. "This is real. I'm yours for life."

I felt a gentle kiss atop my head. "And I, yours. To the end."

Silence for a moment, then Andrew spoke again.

"I do remember the shower, Tommy."

"You do? But -"

"But I thought it was a dream. I've dreamt about you every night, since we met again. Such wonderful dreams. So many wonderful things we did to each other..."

"Well, if you can remember any, I'm up for a repeat performance."

Another chuckle, then a mighty yawn. "Maybe another night, when I'm not already worn out by your lovemaking. Good night, my Sweet Prince."

“Good night, my Fat Welshman."

A tender kiss, then silence...and gentle snores.