Freya's Bower
The dusk deepened out into soft darkness, the air getting colder and the ground dampening. Tommy came back through the trees, and Brett’s stomach tightened in anticipation. He sat up, watching him. Tommy stopped, one hand raised over his head, hanging his weight from the low branch of a ponderosa pine. He smiled, and Brett stared—because he could. He wanted every detail clear and perfect, from the way Tommy’s faded jeans hung on his hips to the dark strands of hair escaping from his ponytail and brushing the collar of his fleece.
“You okay?” Tommy asked.
Brett nodded, too quickly. Tommy pushed away from the tree and crossed casually in front of the fire, pulled the fleece over his head, and tossed it down on the blanket. Then he followed it, dropping lightly to his knees in front of Brett, just waiting. His fingers trailed over Brett’s outstretched leg, barely skimming his worn jeans. Brett leaned forward, his breathing shallow as he closed the space between them.
Tommy held him tight. Kisses tumbled into each other, pulling the breath right out of him. As they parted, the trees seemed to spin, and something that sounded very like a whimper escaped Tommy’s lips, fluttering against Brett’s cheek.
“Wanna take this indoors?” he murmured, jerking his head towards the tent.
“Mm-hm.” Brett nodded, pulling him back for another quick kiss; his way of asserting, however briefly, a little control. Buying himself some time. They crawled into the tent, padded on the softness of sleeping bags and the red plaid blanket. Brett felt light-headed, convinced that every drop of blood in his brain had gone south for the winter. Tommy rubbed hypnotic circles on his thigh through the denim. Brett fidgeted under his hand and almost quivered under his words.
“Can I touch you?” Tommy whispered, his mouth grazing the rim of Brett’s ear. “Properly?”
Brett wanted to tell him that he didn’t have to ask, not ever, but he knew the question only represented a formality, like his whispered ‘fuck, yes’, and the kiss of possession that passed between them.
It proved hard to breathe for a while, and it seemed to take forever for Tommy’s hand to work into Brett’s fly, creeping beneath the fabric of his boxers. Damn the North West climate. Damn the mud and the cold and all these goddamn layers! But then Tommy touched skin that had never known...okay, skin that had known his own hand, and Lynsey’s, and actually a lot more of Lynsey than just her hand, but none of it had ever felt like this.
God. Tommy…just touching him. Brett gasped. Tommy laughed a little, the whisper of breath warm on the side of his neck, and damn if that wasn’t incredible as well.
“Is that okay?” Tommy asked, his voice little more than a low hum under Brett’s ear.
He struggled to nod. Yes. God, yes, definitely very okay. Why hadn’t they managed to do this before?
“Uh-huh.”
“Good. I’m helping you out, right? You like me helping you out, Brett? That’s all right, isn’t it?”
His questions seemed sane, rational, and his tone didn’t change. Tommy just leaned up against him, his forehead resting on Brett’s jaw.
“I—” Brett choked out, embarrassed to find it appeared to be even tougher to speak with Tommy pressed up against him like that. “I wanna…touch….”
Tommy smiled. Brett shuddered. Then Tommy moved, the sleeping bags rustling under them, and he took his hand away. Brett growled softly with frustration and want, rolling over to meet Tommy again, pulling his fly open, cussing the thick denim and stiff buttons. He didn’t understand how it could be so easy to touch him. He felt like silk. Warm silk, crisp hair, and supple heat. The hardness of his chest pressed against Brett’s through all those damn clothes and then—oh, God—Tommy leaned closer and filled Brett’s world with the smell of his skin and his sweat and the damp earth. And then Tommy kissed him, and their bodies crushed awkwardly together, shoving and rubbing, the ballet of hands forgotten, fingers only there to grip hips, and Brett could never have thought anything would be so good.
He a gave a loud, ragged grunt as he came, felt his teeth clash with Tommy’s, felt Tommy still humping against him, still hard, where Brett had already grown slick and started to soften, and that amazing elation withered so fast. In its place, a cold void of panic opened up inside Brett, the edges steep and sharp and tinged with the shame of failure. He started to move away, but Tommy grabbed his arm, skin feeling hot enough to burn, leaving just enough space between them in the dimness for Brett to make out his face. He looked...beautiful. Powerful. Like a warrior.
“Don’t,” Tommy whispered, his eyes half-shut.
His head lolled forward as, unbidden, Brett reached down and stroked him, coaxing out those last moments, marveling at Tommy’s lack of inhibition. He seemed to find it easy to be watched, touched, as he groaned, murmuring a stream of shapeless, desperate words. He cried out as he finished, locking them together with the mess they’d made.
Brett wiped his hand on his stained, sticky jeans, so turned on he could barely breathe. Tommy lay back, a dark flush spilling over his face and neck.
“Whew,” he breathed, eyes narrowed as he looked up at Brett. “Y’all right?”
“Yeah.” Brett smiled sheepishly. “My pants are so wrecked.”
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