When Love Is Bitter (4) (Mature) (Patreon)

Warning:  Talk of sex.  Cussing.  The actual NSFW chapter is next.  

Also, just a friendly reminder to those who are confused, I haven't decided if any of this is actually canon.  I just really wanted to write a Joseph and Nic story due to all the sexual tension between them in the old version of Black Velvet.  Luckily, I'm allowed to do that ;).

—

Nic's eyes are the color of summer foliage.

The color of summer foliage, bright, happy, and warm — doe-like, and sweet.  I think of his eyes more than I think of anything else.

I drop his arm.

I try to remind myself of that because there's venom to them now.  They're narrowed with hurt, lighter with mixed drinks, and they're trained on mine.  He waits for my response with false pride; his shoulders squared in defense, and his fists curled at the end of his large jacket. 

I ignore the swelter of heat in my stomach, the excitement that comes from the offer of him beneath no one else but me, and focus on his eyes.  

"Are you sayin' that,"  I grit my teeth for a moment, hold his glare because I know Nic, and he knows me, "... because you know I'm into guys?  You tryin' to hurt me?"  I'm crowding into his space, ignoring the way his back nearly topples the tiny room's lamp to the floor when he takes a step back. 

Nic's tightened jaw quivers for a moment,

"... How does it feel?"  He whispers, and there's a tear in his eye that falls too slowly down his cheek, another still caught in thick lashes. "...Do you feel like I do?"

I reach towards him like he'll scorch my fingertips, a cautious hand, a flicker of pretty green eyes to the thumb that presses to the middle of his chin.  I'll remember the song that's playing softly from the closed door, I'll remember the red hue of light that emanates from the lamp from behind Nic's mussed hair, and mostly I'll remember that I thought a second too long about that second tear falling.

"I feel worse."

I can't kiss Nicolai Abernathy's lips when he smells like alcohol-soaked fruit;  I can't kiss Nicolai Abernathy with a sad sheen on his eyes.  So I press my lips against his forehead, know that my stubble is sure to burn him, ignore the inhale that he takes against my cheek.  I know I could kiss his lips, but I won't, know I could fuck him, but I don't. 

"Do you want to hurt me?"  I mumble, and my lips feel hot against his temple, "... For making you cry?" 

"... No,"  Nic is too honest, too ashamed, and he leans into my skin, "I don't want to hurt anyone.  I never have — wanted to hurt anyone."

I kiss his forehead again when his hand tentatively flattens against my chest, and then the top of his soft, brown hair when his head falls against my shoulder.  I feel the warmth of several more tears against my collar.

"Especially not you."

—

I apologize to him more times than I want to admit.

It should mean something — that he wouldn't leave my side that night, forearm resting against mine in my pick-up truck, and shoulder to shoulder on the walk into my apartment complex.   

It's probably just forgiveness.

He cracks his stupid jokes, and I laugh because he thinks they're funny.  I think something is comforting about touch after crying, something about warmth and closeness after a bout of sadness, but I decide I like the way his teeth look when he's smiling.

When Nic starts college that August, leaves when the air begins to get a bite of cold to it,

I almost forget that he asked me to fuck him.

—

The next house party that he's home for is too warm with bodies, has too many familiar faces, and my palms are stinging with yet another high five from a too-tipsy friendship spawned from my high school football days.

"Man, I put on weight afterward,"  Joaquin is laughing, face fuller with his first few months away, but he looks happier.  He pushes at his burgeoning beer-gut and gives it an affectionate tap, "construction must have really kept you from the freshmen fifteen.  I swear it's the beer that fucks me over."

"Yeah, well, manual labor isn't worth it,"  I say, if only for the sake of politeness, and my eyes chase Nic's bared neck — thrown back in a laugh a few feet over.  His eyes glitter happily as they trail from his brother and back to me.  He looks at Joaquin, known for his boring conversations, and winks at me.  "Workin', I mean,"  I clear my throat,  "I'm sore all the damned time, and the sun is a bitch in summer.  Good that you're in school."

"Oh yeah, but I hear the pay is good.  You're already on your own, right?"  I take a sip of the hard cider that's been bottled up in a tawny glass as he talks,  "I bet that's rough, the dorms out in Adeline are pretty cheap, considering it's a small college. But I heard your parents are super strict — "

He coughs, realizes he's overstepped. 

They're not strict.  I want to say.  They're Catholic.

I think of my mother's multiple saint figurines topping each shelf of our tiny home, the candles lit in front of the devotional corner near the living room, and of her — very briefly, kneeling in front of it.  

"Yeah, I moved out after high school,"  I mumble.  Oliver, Nic's brother — and scrawny clone,  follows after Nic into the living room.  I shrug off my thin coat.   "I feel more at home where I am."

Joaquin awkwardly shifts on his heels — probably still thinking about his blunder.  

I don't know how to fix it, and I open my mouth twice before I notice he's already smiling dopily at a bespectacled girl across the room, attention permanently lost.  His shy gaze moves back to me.

"Go woo her.  I'm fine."  I laugh, and he wanders off with a half-drunken purpose.

I wait for a moment, avoiding eye contact with a few other guys I know — if only because I'm tired of reminiscing on Jameson football like it'll be the highlight of our quiet lives.  I twist the coat between my hands for a moment, and think of the options before me. 

I could find Nic, seek him out like I do time and time again, or get some much-needed rest with just a short walk back to my apartment complex.

I've been telling myself it's healthier to keep this distance that his time away at college has afforded me — this brief, barely-there distance that doesn't leave me starved for the slight touch of his skin on mine, the wayward glance that I pretend means something; or the way that sometimes, when he stays the night, he curls into the bend of my stomach.

I even try to tell myself I won't regret it when he leaves again on Monday, and that I won't regret going straight home at all.

I'll just tell him I'm heading out, I tell myself, and ignore the part of me that hopes he'll come home with me — 

That this time, he'll wake before I do.

—

I'm stopped by at least three more groups of friends, the unfortunate side-effect of being best pals with someone as bubbly as Nicolai and as beautiful as Anna, and my throat is worn from talking — from laughing, and from the bitter bite of alcohol and the slight pull for sleep it brings.

The crowd is thickening the closer it gets to midnight, and it's almost too much for a small house.  I'm too hot from the body heat and ready to go, lucky enough to be tall — unfortunate enough to be big, but at least I can see straight over the horde of young adult bodies.   I follow behind a fake strawberry-blonde, the scent of peaches thick with her bouncing hair, just in hopes of getting to the garage, where Nic will most likely be.

... Just to tell him what I could easily send through text. 

And only in hopes that he'll turn in for the night early with me, tell me his wild stories on the walk there — hog my X-Box once we get to my room, make Anna's dog love him more than he loves her —

"... Nicolai Abernathy?"  the girl in front of me whispers, and I glance down in interest with his name in the air.  I feel a little more pathetic when I realize what I've done.  "Please — tell me you did not say: Nicolai Abernathy." 

Amy from the gas station near Big Save doesn't have an easily recognizable voice, but she has two moles above her eyebrow, and I pay for gas with cash every Tuesday night — so I know her face well enough; the beauty of living in a small town.

"Lower your voice," her friend turns, teeth white and straight, the highlight of the dyed red hair a bit noticeable, appled cheeks showing even in the dim light — but at first glance,  "that's rude.  Don't say that."

Soft and forgettable. 

Charlie-Anne Petchey.

Amy keeps pushing, 

"Why didn't you talk to him, then, Charlie?  You've had a crush on him since high school, haven't you?"  Amy tosses her hair over her shoulder,  "I heard he's kind of like, a playboy though.  — Good with animals?  And half our graduating class."  The last part seems like a suggestion that Nic is somehow unworthy, and my hackles raise with the insult, "But you know, there are some benefits to experience..."

"Stop!  That's mean,"  Charlie-Anne pushes at her friend's shoulder.  They're both a little pink with drunkenness — and unaware of me trying to get around them, and absolutely ignorant of the crippling jealousy and protectiveness that shouldn't be curdling so hot in my stomach,  "No, I don't have a crush — not on Nic.  I meant his brother,"  She crosses her arms in a self-deprecating way, "Did you see him, I mean... Did you see Oliver?  He smiled when he came in — he always smiles at me."

I feel whatever weight that has cast itself on my shoulders drop, the lump in my throat drop — and the anxiety in my steps following theirs subsides.  

I catch myself in conversation with James from the hardware store and try to focus on what he's babbling on about while I eavesdrop on the girls — because they haven't moved any closer to the garage.   He's talking prices on slabs of marble, but my attention is elsewhere. 

"Oh, little Oliver,"  Amy grins, nodding enthusiastically, "I had him in my English class.  He's super cute... But he's quiet, Charlie,"  she shrugs, "I don't know how you're going to talk to him, I don't think he even has Mebook.  And like — no friends.  None."

I glance back at James and give him a nod, and that's all he needs, pulling out his phone to show me a picture of a countertop he did —

"He's really — he's so nice," Charlie-Anne is frowning, dramatic with the tug of lips into a pout, "And smart.  Every year at the science fair we're like — the only ones on our planet, you know?  Do you think he's got a girlfriend?  I — I'm going to talk to him next time.  I just need to drink a lot or something —"

"What about John?"

"John gave me edible panties for my birthday.  No, thanks."

"You haven't even slept with John, what is he thinking?"

"Well.  He's not.  Not much of a thinker.  I'm currently figuring out how to end that."

"Oliver looks approachable to me, but who knows — the Abernathy's are like the boys next door, they always look approachable.  Not my type — I like bad boys."  Amy is wiggling her eyebrows — and our eyes meet.  She pulls the straw of her drink into her mouth with an exaggerated chase of her tongue,  then unabashedly juts a thumb in my direction, "Or like — him.  The lumberjack kind."

I startle.

"Do you think she's cute?  'Cause she's lookin' your way."  James is laughing,  "I'm trying to show you my badass countertop, but you keep staring at her, you're so obvious."  He whispers, and I shove at his shoulder.

I turn quickly — away from them, totally misunderstood, trying to give more input back to James with them still gossiping behind me.

"You're so embarrassing, don't do that!  You sound like a creep.  I can't tell if Oliver's single if he doesn't have social media — this is the worst.  Look up his mom — has she tagged him?"

"But — the lumberjack —"

"Shut up, we'll talk about it later,"  Charlie-Anne is giggling, slapping her friend's hands away, "shut up, or he'll hear you."

—

I make it to the garage well after midnight, and fifteen minutes after politely declining Amy's number.

"Toby left, and I was super bored.  I thought Joaquin was going to talk your ear off all night,"  Nic whines, shoulder pressing against mine as he raises a tiny white beer pong ball.  He doesn't glance in my direction, just knows it's me.  His sight is trained on the red solo cups in front of him, and a few people are cheering around the table, rooting for his win.  "Also, was that Amy cornering you near the door?"

The ball bounces from the rim and hits the floor.  He boos, chin tilting up to face me, bright eyes finding mine quickly, 

"Where did Joaquin go?  Does he wanna play?  I don't like beer; it tastes like old bread."

"You talk so much, do you even want me to respond?"  I sneer playfully, and Nic elbows me before it's his turn again,  "Amy just said hi.  Joaquin took off with a girl in glasses, you know that's his M.O."

"The butterflies in his stomach just swept him away, huh?"  He's laughing again, head thrown back like before — and the soft parts of his hair brush against my chin.  "Typical."

"Isn't that what happens to you at like,"  I swipe another bottle off the counter, tap the tip of it against Nic's forehead a little roughly before I pop the cap,  "every party we've ever gone to?"

Nic blinks and smiles back at me again, finishing off a cup in his hand,

"I've never had butterflies before," He shrugs, "...Is that a real thing?"  His nose wrinkles in disbelief when I nod, and he glances back at his cup and crunches it before he tosses it towards the trash, "Ah, that so?  I thought it was made up." 

"It's not,"  I furrow my brows "— made up." 

Nic glances back to the door and smiles in his knowing way.  

"If they exist then,"  he pokes at my chest, but there's that lingering touch that I falter with,  "why, oh why, didn't you give Amy your number?"  

I ignore him, and he rolls his eyes, leads me closer to the exit of the garage, cueing on that he's ready to leave.  I shrug on my jacket that's been tucked under my arm, and Nic snaps the buttons closed on his oversized coat.

"I don't get how you're not like,"  Nic waves off to the side, "majorly pent up or something.  And it's not like you even need to be, you're super hot, always rejecting numbers —  always.  Like, do you have a secret saucy romance you're not telling me about?"

"Super hot?"  I snort, flick his forehead as we cross into the grass.  "Don't call your friends super hot. And no."

There are people scattered about, but most live in the opposite direction.  I watch the wind tug the dying leaves off the trees, autumn's colors not as bright in the night.

"There's nothing wrong with calling your friends super hot,"  Nic protests, rubbing at the spot where my finger had met his skin a little too roughly,  "I'm just stating that you are hot, could be having sex, and should be having sex."

I narrow my eyes and listen to the party music fade from us, my steps sounding too loud.  I don't know if it's because of the night air, or the slight buzz of alcohol in my system.

"... You say that like it's an offer."

Nic barely startles — glances down at his feet for a second, and then back up at me, but there's something a little different in his eyes, something flirtatious — like it's not me who is the one who is actually pent up. 

"Is there something wrong with that?" 

I swallow at his question.  At first, I try for nonchalance, and stare off at the clouds that I can still see in the night — the way that they've cracked and split, and show a few stars in between.  Nic's shoulder bumps mine, impatient for a response,

"Like, I was thinking about what you said about — how people always expect something more.  And I'm super — ugh, getting slapped is exhausting."  Nic laughs, but it sounds a bit pained, a bit tired, like his existence tires him sometimes. "People are always saying they can do casual, or like, have sex and then —"

"Where are you goin' with this?"  I stop, and Nic has a hard time meeting my eyes for a moment — but when he does, it's with confidence. 

"You said — that, y'know.  People call me a man-whore and things like that.  I know they do, but," he kicks the ground, "I'm not — wouldn't be, if someone would just be okay with something casual.  Like consistent."

"Consistent casual sex?"  I raise my eyebrows.

"I think that you know me better than anyone does," he says and crosses his arms.  It looks ridiculous in the puffy fabric of his coat.  I try not to think of words like cute, of words like adorable.  "I mean, you saw me cry and all." He laughs, and I wait.

"Just tell me what you're thinkin', Nic." 

"Promise not to get mad? Or weird?  — Because I know I say weird shit all the time," he bobs his head a little to that like he's assessing his track record of being a big dork, "but this is probably going to top it all."

"Go ahead,"  I start walking again, and Nic takes exaggerated steps to keep up with me,  "but if you don't tell me before we get to my house, you've lost your chance."

"Well, okay, so," Nic grins, nearly dances in front of me, "Hear me out.  I think you're physically attractive — like, way.  I saw you at church camp when we did those swimming lessons."  He smiles, and it should surprise me for him to say that he finds me — a male, attractive, but with his fluidity in everything in life — it doesn't.  I stop, only because he's blocking my path.  He tips up on the toes of his sneakers and then back again,  "And I — well, do you find me physically attractive?  Like... I know you... can't date much.  Considering it's Jameson, and you lean more towards guys."

I nod, heart hammering in my chest.

"God, you have such a poker face."  Nic rolls his eyes.  I don't feel like I have much of a poker face — but I thank God for small miracles.

"My house is gettin' closer,"  I warn.

"Fine, fine!  — I wasn't joking about being pent up, you know.  You know that I have a reputation, that maybe it could stand calming down a little," he flinches with a little bit of awkwardness, but barrels on, "but I also like sex, a lot, and you know that."

His blush is pretty.  Guys like Nicolai, with their overwhelming sense of confidence — they don't seem to blush often, and his blush is downright unholy.  

"Hmm.  So."  It makes me want to tease him.  He watches me, a nervous flitter of a gaze.  I narrow my eyes, like I'm contemplating something strange.  "Are you askin' me to get you off?"

"No!"  He says it quickly, then hesitates.  "I — I'm asking if we could mutually get each other off."  

The bluntness does surprise me.  The idea of me getting off — surprises me. 

He laughs, composure restored, and his finger is pushing at my chest again, a knuckle dragging down my sternum, 

"Would the idea of being casual — together, be like... Okay, to you?  I mean — if you meet someone we can stop, it's no big deal.  No feelings or weirdness.  If it's weird or you think I'm super ugly, don't worry."  He smiles at me, open and bright,  "I just — since that night.  I thought I saw you consider it.  When we fought."

He doesn't continue, and he doesn't need to, because there's a beehive in my chest, a thundering in my ribs.  He's barely touching me — but he's touching me with purpose. 

"I did consider it."

His eyebrows raise.

"Well, obviously I'd keep it on the down-low, and we can stop whenever — it can just be light stuff, I know I'll be gone a lot,"  Nic's lashes lid halfway, and he stares at the button of my Henley,  "does it sound like a good idea?"

No.

"You can't mess around with other people, I don't do that, there's too many drawbacks,"  I'm surprised at my ability to hold it in — my ability to act like I haven't been shaken down to the core of everything that I've been reaching for — everything I've been wanting.  It's half of it.  "... STDs and shit."

"Yeah, definitely,"  he nods, "full disclosure...  anything you want to know at any time.  So... Uh — is that a yes?  Or a soft, no?"

'What makes you think you could be happy with half of what you want?' 

"Joseph?"

I roll my jaw, try to ignore the way that Nic is looking at me now  — like a prospect, like something that could touch him, and my skin feels like it's singing with heat,

"That's a yes."