Disclaimer: WEP owns Voltron. Inspired by the song “Man of the House” by Keith Urban.
Man of the House
There was a time- and not so very long ago, at that- when I thought I would have given anything for this.
To have him beneath me, his golden skin flushed rosy with arousal, his lips swollen from passionate kisses, his midnight hair fanned out in stark contrast to the soft white bed-linens, long legs sprawled carelessly, arms twined about me . . . Gods, I would have sold my soul for a moment, an instant of this . . .
Every night on distant Arus, alone in my room, I imagined what it would be like to have him there in my bed, to hear his gasps and moans, to bury my thick fingers in the silk of his hair. And then I’d have to turn over, and hump myself to completion, fantasizing that it was him squeezing my cock and not just my hand, that it was all real and not an empty dream, that I’d wake up to his smile and his scent on the pillow, and not a room filled with the stale smell of unrequited lust and sheets stained with cum.
He thrashes briefly when I find that spot, tossing his head back and forth on the pillows, and whimpering, pleading for me to go faster. Because now I’ve got it, got what I wanted so much . . .
But it’s not my room, not my bed. It’s not even Keith’s bed. It’s their bed, the one they’ve shared since Arus, and maybe even before, though I didn’t know them then.
I’ve got him . . . but only part of the time.
Keith doesn’t cry out when he hits his climax, just makes a strangled little groan that almost sounds like a sob, his fingers digging into my flesh. In that half second before I, too, am lost in pleasure, I wonder if it’s because he’s trying not to call my name, or if he’s trying not to call for him.
Oh, Gods . . .
For a long time, I simply lay there on top of him, trying to slow my breathing and waiting for him to speak, to move, to open his damned eyes.
But he won’t, and I know why. If he were to speak, it would mean I’d say something. If he were to move, he’d feel how much heavier I am when I rest upon him. If he were to open his eyes . . .
The guilt in their black depths would drown me.
Finally, I finish what nature has started, pulling out, pulling away. His hands don’t chase me; they just flop to the bed. But when I crawl from between his legs to lie next to him, and draw him to me, he doesn’t push me away. He curls up small in my arms, forehead tucked into the hollow of my throat. To keep from touching me any more than he has to, now, from shattering the illusion that he’s been clinging to so tightly, he’s crossed his arms over his chest, clutching his shoulders in a grip that turns his knuckles white.
Embracing him loosely, unable to pretend that I don’t want to touch him in return, I wait.
At last, his body trembles, his breath hitches in what is definitely a sob this time, and the tension that lingered even after his orgasm flows away. He sags against me, and I hold him closer, trying to offer the comfort he wants, even though I know he can’t take it from me.
Because what we’re doing now is even worse than what we’ve just done; this false closeness is even more of a travesty than an act of lust masquerading as an act of love.
But that long shuddering exhalation . . . that means he’s faced the fact that he’s betrayed him yet again. He hasn’t accepted it, not by a long shot, but he’s faced it, and he can acknowledge that I’m the one in bed with him.
When I’m feeling exceptionally selfish, I wish this came more easily for him, that he weren’t so wracked by guilt. But then, if it did, he wouldn’t be Keith; he’d be someone else, someone who looked and talked and acted like the man I wanted, but wasn’t.
When he relaxes, I start combing my fingers through his hair, patiently working out the tangles, and trying to be careful that it doesn’t snag on my roughened skin and calloused fingers. He settles himself more comfortably against me with a soft sigh, and lets one hand brush my hip.
The first time we did this, it was all an accident. Just like it was an accident that I decided to build my post-Arus life in the same town they did. Though the world is made smaller by technology, if I’d just picked somewhere else . . .
I stop that train of thought quickly.
Keith had called me, asked me to come over, almost begging for company in a sad little voice that hadn’t even seemed like his own, because he had been called away on business. Again.
So I did, because I could not refuse.
He had forgotten that Keith alone was Keith unhappy, and he had been both increasingly often of late.
And the wine Keith had served with dinner had gone straight to my head, and before I even knew what I was doing, I had leaned over and kissed him. With serious intent, though I more than half expected to feel him push me away.
But he had kissed back. When my hands finally trembled their way to the buttons of his shirt, my own was gaping open, and his nimble fingers were working on the fastening of my trousers.
It was everything I thought I wanted. He was passionate, losing himself in the heat and friction we created between us, his mouth so very warm and willing, and he touched me in all the ways I imagined he might . . .
When he came, the name he called was not mine.
When it was over, he rolled into a ball and shook, the enormity of what we’d done almost too much for him to take.
Then, as now, I could not truly comfort him.
But he called me the next time he (damn it all, the man was my friend! We all went through life and death every day; I should be able to think his name. But I can’t) was out of town, led me up to their bedroom.
I thought nothing could shock me any more than having Keith so eager. But this did.
But Keith had already betrayed him. It could be no worse after that, in his eyes.
He’s drowsing now, his fingers motionless on my skin. Mine drift up and down his back, soothing him further toward sleep. The silence has grown long between us, not because speaking is forbidden, but because we are each afraid of what the other might say.
But finally I find I have to break it. “How long will he be gone this time?”
Snapping out of his doze, Keith stiffens almost immediately in my arms, and then I feel him force himself to relax muscle by muscle. “He didn’t say.” His voice is even quieter than mine.
There are so many things I ought to say. We shouldn’t do this any longer. You love him, not me. This is destroying you. It’s destroying me. It’d be for the best all around if we just . . .
But having spoken once, I cannot force anything else past my lips. I can still taste him, his unique flavor lingering in my mouth. My nerves sing where my skin touches his.
And though I try to wrap it all up in noble sentiment- I won’t abandon Keith when he needs me!- it’s really because I’ve had a glimpse of paradise, tainted though it is, and I can’t let it go.
What Keith gives me is a shadow- less than a shadow- of what the two of them share. But it’s still the most addictive drug I’ve ever known, and I have to wonder how, how can he bear to leave him alone?
Keith stirs restlessly against me. Knowing what this means, that my words have somehow breached the fragile spell holding us, I climb out of the bed. My voice is subdued as I ask, “May I . . .” and gesture helplessly toward the master bath.
He nods, sits up. Habit governs this, too, dictates that as the interloper, I should be the one to clean up first and leave. So I do. With a dampened washcloth, roughly I swipe away his seed, drying on my belly. I know I’ll still smell faintly of sex, but I can’t help that without a shower.
And I don’t want to press too far, lest I end up with nothing at all.
As quick as that, I am done and exit the bath to let Keith have his turn. He doesn’t look at me as I grab my clothes, just hurries into the bath and shuts the door.
I pause, shirt in hand, but when I hear the water running in the shower, I start to dress. There’s really no sense in waiting until he’s done.
He does not love me.
He never will.
Even though I know that, I can’t keep myself from moving as slowly, deliberately, as I can, staring at the empty spot on the nightstand, where I know a picture of the two of them usually sits.
The water is still running when I’m done, though. Staying longer would break our ritual again, no matter how much I long to. I start down the stairs, without even calling good-bye.
He catches up with me before I reach the front door. Hair wet, chest bare, tight denim clinging to damp legs, another picture to add to my collection. “Hunk . . .”
I smile at him, trying to reassure him. For though he doesn’t say it, he wants- needs- to know that I will be here for him the next time the loneliness is too much for him to bear alone, that I won’t leave him.
He doesn’t reach out for me, though. He can’t.
Even if he wanted to, it’s not permissible in the strict confines of this . . . affair.
I long to trail my fingers over his cheek, but that’s an intimacy that I can’t take out here. I have to pretend that I feel nothing for him but friendship, and maybe a bit of concern that his lover, his real lover, is so often so long away.
I reach out anyway, and clasp his shoulder. The wariness in his eyes melts into warmth, and he smiles.
And that’s a rare gift indeed.
A gentle squeeze, telling him without words what he wants to know, and I turn back to the door.
But it opens before I even touch the knob, swinging toward me, and I lurch clumsily out of the way. Behind me, I hear Keith gasp.
Sven is home.
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April 4, 2004