Crossing Borders (41 page)

“Yes,” said Tristan happily. “I'd love to.” He helped Michael to the front door, unlocking it and turning off the alarm. As soon as he got Michael settled on the couch, he started a nice, crackling blaze in the fireplace. Michael looked around curiously at the Christmas decorations everywhere.

“Somebody's been busy,” he said, as Tristan brought him pillows and a warm quilt to make him comfortable. Tristan turned on the tree lights and began to light the candles, which glowed in the dimly lit room and warmed it almost as much as the fire did.

“I was running on a lot of adrenaline for a while.” He looked around and thought that maybe, yeah, he'd been a little over the top. “I had some help from my family and Emma.”

“I'll bet,” said Michael. “Come here.” He patted the couch. Tristan kneeled on the floor in front of him, still too afraid of causing harm to get close.

Michael took his face between both his hands and kissed him tenderly on the mouth. “You are so special.”

Tristan rolled his eyes. “Special good, or special ed?”

“I love you, Tristan,” said Michael. “Always. I'm so glad to be able to say that to you today.”

“Love you too,” said Tristan, unwanted tears staining his cheeks. “Me too.” He wiped at them jerkily, clearing his throat. “Okay, enough of this. Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

Michael merely smiled tiredly and let Tristan fuss, allowing him to remove his clothes, make him comfortable, and push up a small table with water and fruit on it. He turned on music and then babbled on about what type was most conducive to healing. It was exhausting to watch, but Michael let him do it. About an hour later, the doorbell rang, and the first of the visitors arrived with food.

Tristan and Emma, who was among the first to arrive, ushered friends and family in and out of the living room. They kept the fire going and the conversation light, and quietly saw to it that Michael never had to ask for anything.

A short hour later, Michael was drifting off, and people came and went without his knowledge, filling the space under the tree with gifts and the refrigerator with casseroles. He had vague impressions of people, like Meghan and Jim from I.N.KD and Ron, who seemed to be talking with Tristan as though they were longtime friends.

Some of his fellow officers from work came, and at those times he noticed that Tristan seemed strained, coming and going from the living room and acting subdued, which he didn't understand. Sometimes his boy allowed Emma to visit and play host, while he simply came and went silently with refreshments, like good domestic help.

After another hour still, Michael could no longer keep his eyes open at all, and by some silent communication, Tristan and Emma evicted the last of the guests. Emma went home, first putting a sign on Michael's porch support that he was sleeping and any visitor should knock on her door instead.

Tristan turned out the porch light, but left the Christmas lights on, remarking out loud to no one in particular that he liked the way they looked through the front window. Tristan pulled the futon from the office and dragged it to the front of the fireplace, adding another large log to catch. He shucked his pants and shirt off and then his underwear, preferring to sleep nude in the warmth of the fire.

For a long time, he sat and watched Michael, taking in everything about him, his slow, even breathing, the way the light scintillated off his golden hair, his hands, so beautiful, curled up on his abdomen as if to protect himself where he'd been stabbed. Once again, Tristan thought that even if he had forever with this man it would not be enough. He leaned over and kissed Michael gently on the lips and folded himself into the futon to sleep.

Sometime in the middle of the night the slightest scuffling noise awoke Tristan, who jerked at the sound, trying to orient himself to it. He turned to see Michael, pulling the blanket back to rise from the couch with obvious difficulty.

“What is it, love?”

“Don't worry,” said Michael, rising painfully to a sitting position. “I just have to pee, go back to sleep.”

“Not a chance.” Tristan rose quickly from the futon. “Here, I have this thing they gave me from the hospital,” he said, indicating a bag by the couch, which contained a plastic jug.

“Sparky, you don't seriously expect me to pee in my living room, do you?” asked Michael, aghast.

“I expect you to do whatever the doctor told me you should do, and they told me you shouldn't be walking around too much yet. This is a piece of cake. Think of yourself as a long-range trucker.” When Michael remained resolutely disinterested, he added, “Should I make water noises?”

“Sparky,” whispered Michael. “I don't think I could do that. You know, with you here.”

“You do it all the time when I'm in the bathroom with you,” Tristan pointed out.

“Not in a jug.” He looked at the plastic bottle in question, horrified.

“It's not like I'm going to drink it; I'm just going to flush it the second you're done.
Michael
,” he said sternly. “You do not want to fight me on every little thing. Save your strength for the big stuff, okay?”

“Okay,” said Michael. “Leave the room.” Tristan glared at him, but did as he was asked, wrapping a blanket around himself and adding another log before he went to the kitchen. He made himself a cup of herb tea in the microwave and heard Michael call out to him a few minutes later. He returned to the living room, looking innocently at Michael, who gave him the jug, his cheeks like red flags.

“Oh, yuck,” teased Tristan. “It's warm and oh…groooooosss.” He took it to the bathroom and flushed it, rinsing the jug with hot water and antibacterial soap. “Ew, penis germs…” he called out, laughing at Michael's discomfort.

“Ah, crap,” said Michael, turning away. “Don't make me laugh!”

“Sorry, Michael,” said Tristan. Michael was still sitting upright on the couch, his expression unreadable. “I know that was pretty intimate, but it's not like we haven't been more intimate than that. I promise you I'll take care of stuff like that. It doesn't bother me at all.”

“It's just that—”

“It doesn't bother me at all.” Tristan said again. He relaxed onto his back on the futon, rocking a little from side to side to get comfortable. Michael smiled at him in a way that made Tristan think he'd mostly forgotten about peeing.

“Wish I were down there with you,” said Michael.

“Me too… I've slept here almost every night.” Tristan smiled up at Michael, who felt his body tighten a little in response.

“Is that so?” he asked, feeling a kind of restless energy around him.

“Mmmhmm,” Tristan murmured, working it a little. “You know, I like the way you're looking at me right now.”

“Do you?”

Tristan bit his lip. “I do. And it's been so long since you've looked at me that way.” He arched his back a little as if he couldn't help it.

“Yep.” Michael smiled. “It has.”

“And I sort of…kind of…I don't know, thought about this before, when you weren't here.” He gave Michael a look that very definitely said,
Let's play
.

“Ah, well.” Michael's eyes shone in the firelight. “You see, I probably can't do very much more than watch right now…”

“Oh.” Tristan sounded disappointed.

“But I'd like to watch,” Michael said. “I want you to tell me what you were doing without me, on this futon, in front of my fireplace while I was gone… In exquisite detail.” He snaked his foot over and removed the blanket from Tristan's torso, exposing his very lovely body and rock-hard cock.

Tristan smiled like a debauched angel. “I was thinking about you,” he said, warming to the opportunity to put on a little show. “I was thinking about how you touch me,” he sighed, his hands skimming down his arms as he hugged himself against the sudden cold. Those same beautiful hands raked through his long red hair. “I'd imagine that you're here with me and that I'm lying on my back, and you're running your hands all over me.” He ran his hands down his sides and his hips, over the fronts of his thighs and back up, not touching his cock or his balls yet. “But you're teasing me, touching me everywhere, making me need you more and more.”

“Am I?” asked Michael hoarsely. “Would I do that?”

“Mmmhmm. And then, just when it makes me insane, you take your hands away and say, 'Touch yourself, Tristan,' and I have to, you know, because I want to please you.”

“You do?”

“Oh, yes,” said Tristan. “Because I know if I please you, you'll touch me some more, and that's the only thing I can think of, see. Getting you to touch me. So I'm kind of desperate, you know? And then I start touching myself, here, like this, see?” he said, referring to the way his hands stroked the hollows of his hips on either side of his pubic hair, in round little circles that seemed to make his cock jump as he writhed. “And it feels…oh…good, you know? Like a secret place that makes me…uhn.”

“Mmmhmm.” Michael's mouth went dry. His own cock was throbbing now, so much that he loosened the drawstring on his pajama pants to release it.

“And then I think, what if you put your big, callused cop foot on my chest,” said Tristan, who was clearly getting into this. “You know, to hold me down a little and let me know I belong to you.” He gasped as Michael's foot scraped across one sensitive nipple and then the other, exerting a small pressure on him so that he could move his hips and arch his back, but not much else. “Because I do, you know. I belong to you, Michael. And I think no one can make me feel this way but you.” Tristan began to stroke his dick with one hand. He reached down and cupped his balls with the other. “Only you,” he sighed, as he began to rock against his own hands.

“Me,” said Michael, breathing hard now. He didn't touch himself; he was enjoying the show. His Sparky was going to burn the place down.

“And then,” said Tristan, lost now in the fantasy. “I could just imagine you touching me, you know, in deeper places. Places that make me burn,” he said, removing his hand from his balls and sucking on his fingers, pushing them in and out of his mouth until Michael could almost feel that mouth on his dick, tonguing him and making him ready. Michael removed his foot so Tristan could get the leverage he needed to finger his own hole. “It would be your fingers inside me, and I'd rock between your fingers and your hand, and either way I go…I…oh…yes…
Michael
,” he said, lost in it.

“Then what,” asked Michael thickly, his voice grating even to his own ears.

“Oh, then…” said Tristan. “I'd imagine you talking to me, telling me I'm your boy and that you need me to love you. You want me to come on your cock, and you want to taste it. Want me so bad…” Tristan gasped now, panting, biting his lip as he brought himself to the brink of orgasm. He moved then, coming to his knees right below Michael, so his face was looking up at Michael's like a slave, his eyes glazed and heavy, the burn slowly creeping up his skin to his fair neck. He rocked between his fingers and his hand, jerking now, his hips snapping, and he said, “I just want to…be…so…good…only for you…so good.” He bit his lip, and ribbons of sweet white cum undulated through the air, falling in lines like silly string all over Michael, the couch, and the futon.