Black Velvet (77) (Patreon)

(Warnings for: mature content, our babes being embarrassing in the afterglow instead of sexy.)

—

"You know mom's reading books on how to raise you?"

Nic laughed, and it rang through the plastic tunnel of the playground, like the bell he taped to his first bike. He slid the book to me, across the cylinder hideaway where I'd curled up as small as possible to hide from Blake and his never-ending chatter, as well as the scorching Jameson sun.

'Shifting Focus: How to Raise a Busy Busy Brain,'

"It's like you're a new game console or something," My brother's thirteen-year-old interest was caught between genuine fascination and a tease, "how come she didn't buy one for me?  There's a step-by-step and everything."

"Who says it isn't for you?"

"Eh, I'm grandma says I'm tolerable."  Nic shrugs, "You, on the other hand..."

I had a brief moment of indignant nastiness — one where I almost told Nic about Mom's early morning phone calls with his teacher, and how it was at his suggestion that my older brother be put in a second sport in the first place, citing too much energy and not enough focus.

I swallowed the sharp words and pushed at Nic's shoulder.

"Does it tell her to stop making me come to the park with you?" I, a bit bitter, eyed the book with vague curiosity, but only because Mom hadn't allowed me to bring my book along. "Aren't we getting a little old for the playground?"

"Not in mom's eyes."

"Well.  I'm bored — and my nose is sunburned."

"You're such a baby for someone with the personality of an old man,"  Nic grinned, lopsided and metallic with his last year of braces.  "Why are you hiding?"

Mom didn't know that Nic only came out to sneak over to the tiny Jameson skate park.  She wouldn't unless I told her. Mom was convinced skateboarding led to drug use, but I failed to see the correlation.

I huffed instead of responding, squinting at a ray of light that had snuck into my hiding space alongside my brother.

He reached in to flick me across my forehead.

"Earth to Oliver?"

"Where did you find that book?"

"... Hidden inside a newspaper, under the sudoku and crossword books," Nic sighed, squatting next to me,  "...Why do you think she's hiding it?"

"How am I supposed to know?"  I shrugged, cranky with the heat, "... I'm serious, Nic. Are you done skating?  Toby doesn't even like skating."

"That loser?"  Nic's nose wrinkled.  "His stepdad told him to be home by two." He scoffed,  glanced towards the light streaming in.  I followed his gaze while he fiddled his hands,

"You know," he started again, uncertain,  "Mom would be less naggy... and probably spend less money on parenting books if you just hung out with someone, or like — even pretended to make a friend."

"I don't think she's naggy."

"Sure.  Mom isn't naggy.  We're also in an alternate universe."  Nic threw up his arms in exasperation, "Okay. Listen."

"I'm listening."

"What about that time you had that weird imaginary friend, Simon?  Just take literally any kid's name from class and apply it." He stressed, his true intentions rising, "Then I wouldn't have to hang out with you all the time."

"You do not have to hang out with me all the time."

"Look at me. I'm in a tunnel!"

"You chose to be in the tunnel."

"Oliver,"  Nic inhaled, exhaling with a loud whine,  "please.  Take one for the team. The team — me."

"Hey, I don't want to hang out with you either," I snorted when he puffed out his chest, affronted, "and you said Simon was creepy."

"He was creepy because he only appeared at night when mom said it was time for bed."

"She was interrupting Dear Dinosaurs."

He laughed, and I picked a bandage on my knee, tugging one sock back up into place.

"I thought he was going to murder me."

"Stop talking about him like he exists."

"Says you."

"... Why do I have to make friends to make other people happy?"

"Blake thinks you're cool, be nice to him,"  Nic threw his thumb out towards one of the exits, where the boy that accompanied me was likely swinging on his own.  I felt guilt weigh in my stomach. "He's good at baseball, like me. You think I'm neat.  You could think he is, too."

"But I don't think you're neat," I sighed, staring at the unfamiliar names of different adolescent crushes carved into the tunnel's curve, "and I don't I want to make friends, or come to the park. "

"But — Mom thinks you're lonely. She tells grandma about it all the time on the phone. She thinks I can't hear her if she shuts the door —!"

"Nic,"  I interrupted.  "I'm not lonely. Why does she keep..." I waved my hand towards my tennis shoes, not knowing how to word my frustration. A pause hangs strangely there, between us in the humid air,

"...Eventually — she'll give up," Nic ignored the absence of space and scooted in closer to me, splaying his legs next to my hunched ones, "it's —  you know how people at church are always talking."

He moved his hands like a mouth,

"Blah, blah blah."

I chuckled, curling into myself.

"I'm for real — Oliver. Do you think you'll ever like someone as much as you like being alone?"

—

Yes.

Tobias' breath is still sharp moments after I calm, hips still buried between my thighs, like he hasn't thought to compose himself. I let him string his hand through my curls a little too roughly, and I try to catch onto my own heartbeat, thundering heavily.

There's warmth that's spread over my stomach — my chest, something that should feel messy and embarrassing.  It just doesn't.  I lean further into him at the thought.

"You are, "  he whispers, pressing his lips up against my temple.  "Something else."

His palm is behind my head, and he squeezes there again as he exhales. It's shaky, fingertips digging a bit.  I'm quiet.  I think of his endless praises, his mouth full of desires and yearnings — of heady groans. I wonder what about my voice makes him believe his is any less.

"You know that?"  Tobias presses another open kiss against the tip of my ear; it warms at the sentiment. I let him flip us, my back hitting the mattress.

"Um. Thanks,"  I say, sex-slow and dumb, and then melt from embarrassment when the dark-haired man smirks at the catch of my tone.  "Okay — I mean. You know."

When Tobias pulls away, pulls his warmth from me, I inhale with wonder at the sudden loss.

"You alright?" His voice is half-melted, honey-thick, a sheen across his abdomen that is cut hard even when he bends.  I'm nodding, arms still wrapped around the back of his neck, and then nodding harder when he smiles small — then brightly, then he's wholly grinning, and I'm laughing at the weirdness of it all, burying my face behind both arms.  "Why're you acting shy suddenly? It's not like you."

"Why're you so conversational?" I snipe back, almost too earnestly.  "It's not like you."

He drags a finger over my stomach, and I curl with nerves.

He grins wider.

"What's so funny?" I ask him — think that maybe it was my careless oh, or perhaps that we're half-naked and tangled crudely in his sheets.  Maybe it's that he's just unlocked the fact that I'm disgustingly ticklish.

Tobias chuckles, a low sound that tickles my goosebumps, makes me feel so light that I want to stay here always, with this smile that tugs my cheeks, at an arm's length away because that's how I've caught him,

"Why are you smiling so much?"  I huff,  "Are you making fun of me?"

"...  This is better than my car." His smirk grows, happiness and laziness staining his words.  It makes me smile back,  "I had bruises from that."

I huff, a palm digging into his chest in a playful nudge,

"Oh yeah?  That makes you smile?"

"Why are you asking me why I'm smiling when you're smiling?"

I bury my face against the curve of his collarbone, tip my nose up against his ear,

"I really,"  I start, and I want to tell him I love him, but a surge of uncharacteristic embarrassment chases the urge away, "I'm happy,"  I say instead, and Tobias' hand disentangles one of mine from his neck to intertwine his fingers through it.

He doesn't say anything for a moment, examines where our hands meet, turns them over and then glances back towards me,

"Yeah?"  Tobias pauses, runs his thumb over my knuckles.  "...And what else?" His tone is honestly curious, cuts through my derailment.  I try to ignore his lips that touch my palm too softly, and I shake my head.

I shake it and feel my eyes water, which is ridiculous and mortifying, but they are, they're blurring my vision, so I squeeze them shut.

"Um.  I'm happy." I push my hand through Tobias' dark hair, press my other thumb over his scars, the wounds that have kind since scabbed and healed across his knuckles.  "that's all.  And.  It's nice —to see you happy."

It's abruptly a lot quieter.

It stays that way for longer than I'd like.  I can feel Tobias' eyelashes flutter against my cheek when he kisses me.  They're damp. I think he might be crying. I should think it's strange, but I don't. If he cries, I will kiss him again.

"... Why did it take us so long to get here?"  He asks, so quietly I nearly miss it.  "I don't — I wish I could go back in time."

"Hey. All of — all of this is a good thing."  I murmur.  I reach for the fabric that covers his heart.  He stops me, overlaps my hand with his own, and nods his head.  I can still feel the quake of his heartbeat beneath my fingertips.  There's unmistakable moisture that tumbles against my cheek.  I reach up, thumbing away his tears as gracefully as I can manage.

"And you think — this will last?"  He asks.  "Will we last?"

"Um, duh."  I say stubbornly, heartbroken at the thought that I've now felt his tears,  "We had sex and now we're crying, we can't face anyone else ever again, which means we have to end up together."

"Jesus."  Tobias breathes in, harsh with an abrupt laugh, and closes his eyes tightly.  I know him well enough to see his jaw set past the haze of lust, watch as his eyes close again, for just a moment too long, like he's trying to chase each negative thought away.

I reach for him with my other hand. He slinks back a bit, and my hand falls to the air between us instead. I let my legs slip from his side — as he hunches his shoulders back to back up against the headboard,

"Just a second, " Tobias turns, runs his palms over his eyes with an inhale, leans back on the haunches of his legs as he gathers himself. He laughs self-consciously, "Sorry. I don't know — why I have to turn everything into something shitty."

I can tell he feels very self-aware, uncomfortable — and feel myself tug at my sleeves awkwardly. Of course he would. Does he have any reason to think his happiness won't unravel any minute?

"Tobias. Don't be sorry," I say, and there's the familiar empathetic pinprick of tears in the corners of my own eyes. "You've got nothing to be sorry for."

Tobias' head is lifting, eyebrows furrowed as he sends me a muddled look, reaches with one hand to take hold of my shoulder.

"I want this,"  his voice is low, like sandpaper, dark eyes rake over the flush of my cheeks, "I'm just. I feel like I'm freaking out.  It's weird."

He laughs again, apprehensive.

"It's not weird.  What do you...?"  I push, my fingers brushing his cheek.  He stares at me so openly that my hand falls back against my lap.  "What do you, what — what's freaking you out?"

"I still feel — "  Tobias says, and his eyes slide over  his bookcase.  He stares, in that distant way that he used to,  "It's like it's not enough.  Like —"

"I want more, too,"  I assure him, maybe too hastily.  I shyly tuck a curl behind my ear, averting my eyes.  "If that's — that's what you mean.  I want more from you, too. And it's not going to scare me."

I want to quiet all the uneasiness and worry that lurks under his gray eyes but feel myself curling back into something self-conscious.  Tobias is quiet when he touches my face, cups it between his palms, hunched over me.

"Isn't this what we wanted?"  He asks, almost strikingly naive.  I gaze up at him.  "Are we stupid? What else do we want?"

"I know this is part of it,"  I say again.  He looks at me, eyes half-mast and searching — strokes his thumbs across my cheeks when I lean into his touch.  I find myself searching too. "But. We're always going to want more from each other. Does that have to be bad?"

"... Do you know what it is?"  Tobias asks me.  I can hear my heartbeat in my ears, feel the quake of my chest — my legs tremble from the memory of when I'd anchored myself to him.  "Is it — is it what your parents have?"

"I — well.  I don't know what they have."  I pause,  "... but,"

"What is it?"

"What's — what's the first thing you think of? When you think of me?" Silence is all there is for moments, that same steady swipe of his fingers over my skin.  "Come on, Tobias. Just — the first thing?"

"I don't — "

"Be honest.  I won't laugh."  I glance down at the sheets,  "I — I want to know.  I need to know what 'more' you want from me.  Sometimes, I'm scared that,"

Tobias interrupts, wraps his arms around me  — near awkwardly, but tight like he's melding me into himself.  He slips his fingers through my curls in a way that's too gentle for him.

"Okay."  He pauses, smiles, then slides his hand down my back when I return his embrace.  His nose is back at my throat, runs up the softer parts of my skin.

"Okay."

Tobias exhales.

"... I think of porch swings."

I swallow, wrap my hand around his wrist to squeeze it.  He runs his cheek against my bare collar, lets his hands wrap around the sides of my waist — squeezes back.

"... What do you mean?"

"That's just what I think of."  There's something shy to him, an heat on his cheek that lays against mine.  "It was the first — I don't know.  Maybe it's stupid."

"It's not stupid.  I just — don't understand."  I think of him, drunk and alone like I often have.  I think of him on the porch swing in front of his mother's home, night after night.  My stomach flips. "It just. Seems like it would be a bad memory."

"I want to — I,"  he fumbles with his words, a sigh that sounds like the breath taken before your first class presentation.  "... I just thought — that I want to sit on a porch swing with you."

He buries further against me.  It should be silly — this broad man, curled around me like he's hiding.  I don't respond; I wait for him.  It takes long enough that my leg begins to bounce anxiously between us.

"... I want to feel safe, and sure of myself, and not freaked out over the stupidest fucking things. I don't want to ruin good things because I can't stop thinking."  He whispers, pulls my arms from around him, and lays beside me.  His courage has resurfaced, but he stares at the stars on his ceiling — avoids my eyes.  "Sitting on a porch swing.  I want a home.  I want to feel safe beside you on a porch swing.  That's all I thought of."

"That's — "  I want to say it's beautiful.  I want to say — that my heart has never felt so close to my throat in my life.  I don't, I just stare at him, avert my gaze to the stars above us.  They've lost their glow somewhere in the midst of us finding our small light.  "... Then you — you feel the same as me.  I want the same things for you."

Tobias lays down next to me, pulls the blankets over us both.  I fit into the crook of his shoulder, his build still reliable, even when relaxed — an edge that says he wasn't built for holding someone.

"I trust you."  He says.

Tobias holds me until I fall asleep, and is there when I wake up to the dawn casting faint blue shades across his skin, in a way that makes him soft. 
—

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