Skye Warren - Short Smut, Vol. 1

“ Peace offering,” Chris's voice cuts through Nick's will to be nonchalant, a bloom of warmth opening in his chest like the first timid peek of a tulip from drifts of snow still melting in a lukewarm sun.

“ Coffee doesn't erase things, Chris.” Nick hates the admonishment in his voice. He wants to have just taken the cup, said thank you. But it seems he can't help himself where Chris is concerned.

“ It erases some things. Nights up too late. Bad moods. Sometimes lingering bad dreams,” Chris's voice trails off. “It erases my need to break the ice. It's broken. Now I can think again.” And with that, Chris turns and walks away, crunching into his apple.

Nick feels it again, those tentative petals in his chest rising into clean air, breathing in the promise of sunshine. Stupid, Nick tells himself. One nice gesture does not a reformed Chris make.

But Nick knows now, after months, that Chris isn't the only one in need of renovation.

Nick's side hurts. His eyes are streaming, and he can't catch his breath. He really wishes it would stop, and not just because he's beginning to cough with the force of his laughter. He wishes it would stop being so fun to be around Chris again. He wishes he didn't have to see this side of the man he's never stopped loving with the deepest parts of himself, the ones he can barely face except in the delicate stillness of the night. He wishes he didn't feel himself forgetting the things that infuriated him about that insolent mouth, now telling the dirtiest jokes and making the entire crew split apart with laughter.

Mostly, he wishes he could keep his head on straight when he's around Chris.

But the touches have begun anew, the slight hand brushings, shoulder bumps, or knee presses beneath tables. He initiates them as much as Chris does. It's as if, cautiously, they're acknowledging what they had, like they may both be okay with remembering, admitting that yeah, they were good together. Once.

Nick always knew he could get through any pain on earth if he had Chris around to help him through. It's ironic that Chris is the pain he's helping Nick recover from. It's a weird circle, completely abnormal and totally fitting of how he and Chris always were. They'd defied convention. Hell, they'd written their own convention. Nick knows it just as he knows Chris's hand is on his thigh under the table.

As the rest of the group breaks to go to their wives or boyfriends or other clubs with cheaper drinks and more bass, Nick decides he should head out, too.

Chris stands with him, suggests they share a cab. Nick hesitates, and Chris backs off. “Okay, if you don't think it's a good idea.”

This isn't like Chris. He's not pushing, prodding his finger into a fresh bruise just to see how much he can get away with before the yelp. Nick cocks his head to the side and realizes it's really stupid for them not to share a cab. They live within blocks of each other. Nick had moved back into his old place after his divorce/lease ended, giving his sublessee time to find another place. He'd needed something familiar, something his from B.C., Before Chris. He feels like he's getting back bigger and bigger pieces of himself, and if that progress can't see him through one cab ride, then he's been deluding himself about how far he's come. In answer to Chris's waiting expression, he raises his fingers to his mouth and lets out a whistle at a passing cadre of cabs.

One stops, and he holds the door open for his friend, his former lover, keeper of his heart. Chris still has it, Nick knows.

“ I still have what?” Chris asks, head resting back on the seat, eyes closed as the car pulls away from the curb. Nick realizes he spoke aloud and flushes. He shakes his head. He cannot answer that question, and he wonders when he drank so much that a Cheshire cat appears beside him, grinning and urging him down the same rabbit hole. But Chris didn't see the head shake, so he asks again.

Nick swallows. And he answers. Because it's the truth and he never could lie to Chris.

It's not a date. It's really not, and Chris won't think of it as anything more. He can't, even after he and Nick seem to have gotten their old bromance groove back, the one they'd found before they landed in bed together. It's not his fault the takeout place he had in mind was closed for renovations, so what started as a quick bite at an old favorite haunt ended up at a little cafe next door, sitting on the sidewalk in the pinking twilight, the warm night turning chilly around them. Chris wraps his hands around his coffee cup, hunching over it and breathing in the aroma.

I love how you never do anything halfway, Nick once told him. It makes him smile.

“ What's so funny,” Nick asks, taking the last bite of his dessert.

“ Not funny, just nice.” Chris stretches his legs beneath the table, leaning back in his chair. If he accidentally brushes his calf against Nick's leg, he doesn't worry about it, doesn't pull away, doesn't apologize. You still have my heart, too, Nick.

Nick looks at him, waiting for him to explain, but he doesn't, lost in thought until a shiver works him over violently. “We should go. Getting chilly.”

Nick agrees and they pay, walking back toward their houses. Chris wonders if he should ask Nick to come over. He doesn't want to go home alone, but he doesn't want to ruin this tenuous thread between them, silvery and delicate like a dew-studded spider web glistening in the morning sun. Nick beats him to the punch.

“ Someone's really missed you and I think it's high time you rectify that situation.” Nick's hands are shoved in his pockets and the chill of the air is deeper.

Chris bites his tongue against a dick joke, simply looking at Nick, confused.

“ My dog hasn't been the same since spring. I think you need to spend some quality time with him so I don't have to find a doggie therapist. Even I'm not that Hollywood.”

Chris laughs and they walk in silence for another block. Nick shivers and Chris has the urge to lean against him, or put his arm around his waist. He never did that when they were living together; too risky if the paparazzi were lurking. Feeling reckless, Chris walks closer and then he's leaning in and Nick's leaning back. A few steps and it feels like reconciliation, an erasure of the slate where there are ghosts of the marks they inflicted on each other, but they're so faded you have to squint to see them.

“ Buster's not the only one missing people,” Chris says, voice low.

“ I know,” Nick answers, taking a hand from his pocket to brush pinkies with Chris. They walk on, toward something old, something new, and hopefully something cleaner. The golden retriever is so happy to see Chris he nearly wags the tail off his butt.

Nick feels almost shy, slipping out of his pants and shirt, standing naked in front of a disrobing Chris. They have such history, and looking on Chris's bare skin is painfully good, like the welcome sting of an ice cube against a blistering burn. They reach for each other, the afternoon sun painting Chris's golden hair with rays from the open window. Nick's dry palm rests across Chris's smooth cheek, his thumb tracing that full mouth, and he's almost afraid to kiss those lips. They're so easy to lose himself in, the gentle humor they convey, the biting wit, and in moments like this, the open love.

Those lips had brushed his cheek that night they'd shared the cab, Chris leaning close to whisper a good night as the car had dropped Nick off first. It was gentle acknowledgement that Christ understood what it had cost Nick to be honest about still being in love with him.

“ Chris,” Nick murmurs, lips grazing his cheek. “What if we… do it again?” His deepest fear, and the reason he trembles against Chris's chest.

“ We won't. We grew up some. Without any help, even.” Chris grins, then tilts his face and Nick is falling, tumbling once again into the rabbit hole. When he lands, he sees himself full and whole once again.