WARNING: Although this mentions real people, this is in NO WAY a real or inferred situation.
This never happened, never will happen, and is not to imply that it even could happen.
For entertainment purposes ONLY.

“Hey,” I hear the voice and it takes me back, takes me back weeks, months, too long, a lifetime. Heat fills my stomach, burns down to my toes, across my cheeks and I suck in a breath, not realizing how badly I’d wanted, needed to hear that voice again.

I blink and he comes into focus from the dark edges of the parking lot, walking under the dim light of the streetlamp towards me. The light spills down over his head, baseball cap hiding his face, but I’d know him anywhere. Know the gait, the way his hands are shoved in his pockets, shoulders raised, head tilted to the side. Know that like I know anything.

I quickly bite my tongue to stop myself from saying his name – the parking lot is nearly empty, just my rented PT Cruiser and a few random vehicles from the fans that had waited after the show – but God help us both if any of them happened to discover that he was here.

“Hey,” I say instead, my throat suddenly tight and my mouth dry. I can’t stop smiling and bite my bottom lip so the grin doesn’t take over my face. He stops in front of me and takes one of his hands out of his pocket to pull a half-smoked cigarette from between his lips, dropping it to the ground and squashing it under his foot. He looks up at me and gives me one of his wide closed-mouth smiles.

“So, can I get a lift?” he asks, rubbing his palm across the scruffy beard covering his chin and cheeks, smirking as though it was the perfect thing to say.

I laugh under my breath. “What, you walked here from… LA?” I struggle to remember where he was living the last time I talked to him, maybe two months ago. I motion with my chin towards my car, and walk close to him, brushing my arm against his as I dig in my pockets for my keys.

He shrugs lazily and wraps his long fingers around the back of my neck in that way he always does, thumb reaching up under my hair, brushing across my scalp. “I found my way here,” he says, raising his eyebrows and smiling softly.

“This is me,” I say, stopping in front of the PT Cruiser and deactivating the alarm. He drops his hand from my neck and pokes me in the ribs.

“Jeeeee-sus, Randy! A PT-fucking-Cruiser? You kidding me?” he laughs and walks around the car to the passenger side, squinting at it in the darkness, looking up at me with a look of mock horror.

“I’m just renting it, okay? Enough of the theatrics,” I retort and hear him groan.

“You obviously never heard a goddamn thing I said,” he says, disappearing from view as he folds his long legs into the passenger seat.

I climb in beside him and shake my head. “Nope, I never did,” I smirk and think back to late nights at his house in Toronto, sprawled out in his living room, listening to him go on and on and on about classic cars. But I never really listened, I just watched his lips as they moved, forming the words, heard his voice with the soft drawl he always tried to hide, sipped at his beer and… and…

I feel my face flush and I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing as me.

He stares at me and tilts his head to the side. “C’mere,” he says, twisting around in his seat and grabbing my wrist, pulling me into his embrace. He hugs me tightly, his hands crossing over my shoulders, nearly pulling me out of my seat. I hug him back, resting my chin on his shoulder as he rubs my back slowly, his hand warm even through my t-shirt. I close my eyes and bite my lip and breathe him in, try not to slip away to months ago, to where I needed this and wanted this and had this...

Long moments pass until he lets me go and I reluctantly slide back into my seat. The air sits heavy between us and I feel like there are thousand things either one of us wants to say, but neither one will.

I snap out of it and push the key into the ignition, starting up the car, see him fiddle with the seat, pushing it back to get more legroom.

“PT-fucking-Cruiser,” he mumbles under his breath, laughing softly. “You never cease to amaze me,” he says, rolling the window down, staring out at the night sky. Cool air washes into the car and I take a deep breath, trying to clear my head.

“So you gonna tell what the hell you’re doing in Stockbridge?” I pull up to the stop sign and head towards the city center.

He pulls his baseball cap off, runs his fingers through his hair, shaking out the thick brown locks, then recaptures them, putting his cap back on. “I was visiting a buddy in Boston, he was driving to New York, Stockbridge is on the way,” he says it quickly, trailing off at the end. “Besides, I didn’t wanna miss the show again this year. I saw you – you were great. But then you’re always great.”

“Oh c’mon,” I smack his leg lightly with the back of my hand, feel an unwarranted blush creep to my cheeks and a sneaky burn in my stomach. I clear my throat and still feel the phantom brush of his denim-covered thigh across my knuckles. “Jesus, it’s been, what, six, seven months?”

He looks out the window, away from me. “Yeah, poker night at Sharon’s,” he laughs under his breath at the memory, beers and cards and innuendo.

“Good times,” I say it softly and laugh too, glancing at the side of his face. He turns towards me and lifts the corner of his mouth in a half smile, reaching into his shirt pocket for a cigarette, and sliding it behind his ear.

“Are you staying somewhere? I mean… you can crash with me, but I have roommates and it might be… um…” I trail off not sure of what I’m saying, just knowing that me bringing him home to the house I’m renting with a couple of cast mates is probably not the best idea.

“S’ok, I’m at the Red Lion, listen, you wanna go for a drink?” He says it all in one sentence, hurried and rushed, not taking a breath. I can feel him staring at me, and I head towards town.

“Of course, yeah. There’s only one real bar in this place, but you’ll like it,” I pull a u-turn in the middle of the road and head back towards “Michael’s”, finding a spot on the street and pulling over.

He climbs out of the car before I’ve hardly turned off the ignition and lights up his cigarette, inhaling deeply and blowing the smoke up towards the sky, staring up at the stars as he does.

“It’s nice, hunh?” I say, standing beside him and looking up at the blanket of stars covering the deep blue sky. I pull the cigarette from between his fingers and take a long drag. The smoke burns my lungs and reminds me of waiting around the Babylon set.

“Thought you quit,” he says, taking it from me and putting it back between his lips.

“What can I say. You’re a bad influence,” I nudge him with my hip, smirking as I pull the cigarette from his mouth to take another drag.

He slings his arm across my shoulders and lets me lead him to the bar, a block away. We find a dark booth near the back and he slides into the seat, flipping his hat off and looking out at the other patrons at the bar.

“You don’t come here often, do you.” He smiles at me, thinks he knows me.

“Yeah, sure I do. I’m here like every Friday night,” I say back, sliding down in my seat.

“Randy at a bar. A straight bar. Every Friday night.” His sentence is cut off by the waitress coming over to take our order. He touches her on the arm and points at me. “Does he come here every Friday night?” He winks at her and puts on the Gale Harold charm.

She glances at me, then smiles. “Hey Randy,” she says, her eyes wavering back to Gale’s.

“Hey Kim,” I respond, kicking Gale under the table. He ignores me and keeps staring at Kim.

“Yeah, he’s here every Friday night. `Cause it’s karaoke night, and he’s the best, I mean, Randy can sing like you never heard--” She’s cut off by a bark of Gale’s laughter and my hand squeezing her wrist simultaneously.

“Uh, Kim,” I say, blushing furiously. I admit I forgot exactly why I’d been at a straight bar in the middle of Hicksville four Friday nights in a row, but it’s coming back to me now with screaming clarity. “Maybe you could get us a couple of beers – whatever’s on special tonight?”

Gale smirks at me and shakes his head, laughing under his breath. He doesn’t stop looking at me, waiting until till Kim has left before licking his lips and laughing again.

“Karaoke, hunh?” he says. “That makes sense, then,” he nudges me under the table and I push at his leg with my knee, burying my face in my hands.

“I didn’t mean for you to hear that,” I say, thankful when Kim drops off two bottles of beer. I grab mine and swallow back a big gulp, hoping it’ll cool me down. I look up at him and he’s still smiling and it’s infectious, so I smile back too.

“So…” he says, long, drawing it out, sighing at the end and stretching out under the booth, his legs sliding in beside mine.

“So,” I say back, short and to the point. His jeans rub against my bare legs, rough and soft at the same time.

He picks up his bottle and takes a drink, puts it back down, picks at the wrapper, takes another swig.

“You gonna tell me why you’re really here?” I ask, catching his eyes and not letting him go.

“Maybe you already know,” he says, pressing his knee against mine.

“Maybe I wanna hear you say it,” I drop my voice, lean over the table towards him.

He slides back in the booth and hunches over the table, leaning close to me, faces nearly touching.

“Randy,” his voice is hoarse and uneven and a little unsure.

“Yeah?” Mine is too.

“I missed you.” He says it so sincerely and unexpectedly and it seems entirely too innocent.

“That’s not what I thought you were going to say,” the words slip from my lips before I can reign them in.

“Maybe I missed being inside you too,” he says, tongue sliding into his cheek, eyes catching mine.

My heart races at the words, throat jams shut, dick gets hard, flush to my cheeks so much more than before. I clear my throat, drink back the rest of my beer, and reach into my pocket, finding a ten to throw on the table.

“Your hotel is just around the corner.” It’s almost a whisper but I know he heard me, slight nod and he chugs his drink back too.

“Let’s go.”

*

A year ago we fucked for the eleventh time, and it seemed like a good place to stop. Neither one of us wanted anything more than that feeling we somehow created together, that feeling of intensity and lust and doing something that we knew we shouldn’t. From our first time in Toronto, to the next time in New York, and then that crazy last season of filming… we fucked in our trailers, we fucked in our homes, shit, we even fucked on set once, late one night after everyone went home and all the lights had been turned off. I blew him on the Babylon set and he came on my face and “Justin’s” t-shirt. 

We never talked about fucking – we just did it. It was the easiest thing in the world. And so it made sense that we didn’t talk about stopping. We just did that too.

When I saw him at Sharon’s, there were people and pot and I had too much to drink to think rationally. I wanted to kiss and we did, a make-out session on the front porch that ended with me nearly falling down the stairs and him passing out in the cold night air on Sharon’s deck swing. I woke up in his hotel bed with him curled around me, hung-over and achy, but with my clothes still on.

I thought that meant it was over. That we’d gotten over it and our story had come to its natural conclusion. Life goes on. People come, people go. 

I spent the last half-year trying to forget the taste of his bourbon and tobacco-stained lips from that night.

But now here he is, and here I am, stepping into his suite at this nice little hotel in this place where I’m doing summer theatre and am not supposed to have anything at all to do with Brian or Justin or Queer as Folk. Except he’s here and there’s no reason why we shouldn’t do whatever the fuck we want to do – we’re not working together, we’re not hiding from anyone, and his slightly bent perspective of identifying as straight seems to have kept it’s kink in my direction.

So…

He sits on the bed and I feel awkward, standing in the doorway, flip-flops kicked off, bare feet on the carpet. I’m tired from the show, a little buzzed from the beer on my empty and dehydrated stomach and my hair is fucked up and all over the place and I suddenly feel so out of place standing here in my cargo shorts and t-shirt. He pulls off his cap, toes off his shoes, then falls back on the bed, flat out, washed out jeans and soft dark button down shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows.

“There a mini-bar or something here?” I look around and spy it under the desk. “Do you mind?” I ask, already heading there and pulling it open, searching inside for something. Anything to get rid of this nervous feeling in my stomach.

“Of course, go ahead,” he says, pushing himself up on his elbows. “Anything interesting in there?”

I pull out a couple of small bottles and toss them on the bed. “Shots?” I say and smile at him, picking up a bottle of vodka and holding it out to him.

He grins at me, lips shut and curling up his face. He takes the bottle from me and unscrews the tiny cap, pouring half of it down his throat, then passes it to me. I down it and toss the empty bottle on the carpet, then climb up on the bed beside him.

He watches me, his face serious, eyes catching mine and not letting go. I lie on my side and prop my head up with my elbow on the bed and look back at him, feel my heart start to beat harder and my face get warm. I want him. I want to do this. And it scares me how much I want it.

He rolls onto his side and stares at me for moments, then leans in close… lets his hair fall across his eyes so I can’t see them, hiding his face and licking his lips and then his hand wraps around my neck and he pulls me to him for a soft kiss.

Our lips brush together gently, his beard soft against my chin, and his nose presses into my cheek… his fingers are warm and damp on my skin and his palm holds me to him, not letting me go. I close my eyes and remember the very first time our mouths touched and still feel the fire between us that’s always there. From that first time when we were pretending to the last time when we so weren’t.

His tongue snakes out and licks at my lips and I suck in a breath and open my mouth to let him in… he touches his tongue against my teeth, then runs across my own, soft and hesitant and drawing it out. I feel his breath slowly letting go, washing across my face, soft and warm.

It’s so relaxed, so comfortable, so familiar and comforting and just easy. I wish I could stop time and hold it right here.

His breath hitches in his throat and he shifts a little on the bed, then pushes me over onto my back and half climbs up on top of me, burying me under his weight. His leg slides between my thighs putting pressure on my crotch, and I feel his dick, heavy and hard against my hip. He rocks against me slowly, his belly pressing against my lengthening cock, and it feels so good, dull shadows of color expanding behind my eyes, I feel so taken, so wanted and needed…

His fingers comb through my hair and I open my eyes to find his searching my face, flicking back and forth, staring at me in the dim light of the room. I don’t know what he’s looking for, don’t know what to show him except just me – I have nothing left to hide anymore, all I have is who I am. I can’t pretend to be disappointed or upset about my work, about what I’m doing. I can’t pretend that it’s just my way of dealing, that it’s just my outlet… I love what I’m doing now, and I have no excuse for this.

And I know I don’t need one.

He puts his palms on the side of my face, slides his thumbs across my cheekbones and leans his forehead against mine, rocking against my body, holding me tightly. God, it feels so good to have him here with me, and when his lips capture mine again, I realize his kiss is what I’ve missed for so many months. It fills that place inside me that’s sat empty for too long.

It’s in that moment that I know it’s started again. Everything has started again.

And then there is no more time for slow, tentative kisses, for exploration and recollection. Then there is only time for desperate, hard mouths pushed together, for frantic fingers pulling at clothes, tearing open pants and pulling shirts over heads. There are hot sweaty palms pressed against skin, all over, touching me everywhere and I feel him everywhere too, fall back into our story and remember how it plays out, every single time.

We leave decorum and common sense behind and give into lust and desire and whatever this is, this thing that has a hold of us that we can’t seem to let go. Our kisses deepen, mouths barely leaving one another’s, and I grab handfuls of his hair between my fingers to hold him to me, to keep him against my face and mouth, pushing against my skin, breathing his breath, devouring him, twisting legs together to press cocks against bodies, to rut and hump and surrender to the desperation.

And then he’s leaning over me, condom in hand, shaking fingers rolling it on his dick. I take his hand in mine and pull two of his fingers between my kiss-swollen lips, into my mouth, sucking them till they’re wet, then guide his spit-soaked fingers between my open legs to my hole. I press his fingers inside me slowly and slide in one of my own beside, fucking myself on our fingers, watch his face as he closes his eyes, mouth hanging open, body moving in tandem with his hand inside me, rocking back and forth. The stretch and burn takes over my ass and I feel my heart beating in my cock, hard, feel heat fill my chest, settle in the small of my back and I pull our fingers out, then feel him push the blunt head of his dick against my hole.

It’s my first fuck in months, and I can’t help but suck in a hard breath as he starts to push inside. It hurts, always hurts, but I love the hurt, sometimes crave the hurt, and I hold onto it, let it pulsate from my toes up the base of my spine to behind my eyes. I grab at his arms and pull him to me, press his chest to mine, and he slides all the way inside me, filling me up so much that I feel like there’s nothing left of me inside, just him. That he’s become a part of me, completely.

“God,” he gasps.

“Christ,” I moan.

And his dick pulses inside me and I clench hard around him and I know the only religion we believe in is this.

I cross my ankles around his back and take him inside me deep, stop time for moments and breathe with him inside. He rests his forehead against my shoulder, lets me pull him against me, press against my body, crush me beneath the weight of him and what we’re doing. Bury me with the desire and intensity and the knowledge that I’m getting what I’ve been craving for what seems like a lifetime since I had it last.

It’s a slow fuck, drawn out for an eternity, as long as either of us can stand, till it gets too much and he quickens the pace again, pulls my dick between his fingers, pushing his cock inside me deep and fucking me, really fucking me in that way that no one else ever has, no one else ever could. I take him inside myself and lose who I am, become part of this thing that we are together, and then it’s all white lights and starry skies and I come all over my chest, warmth trickling down my sides to the sheets. His hips snap hard against the backs of my thighs and he slides his hands under my back, pulling our bodies together, pressing his heaving chest to mine, smearing my come all over both of us, gasping into my hair, against my face, squeezing me up into his arms and holding me so tightly against him as he comes. I can’t breathe, move, anything, I can’t grasp hold of any sense except for him. I’m surrounded with it. Covered in it. Buried in it.

Lost in it.

Moments pass, our heartbeats finally slow, and he eases out of me, grabbing the condom and tossing it aside, then lying down between my legs, hot bodies stuck together. He looks up at me and I open my mouth to say something, don’t know what, something… but his mouth catches mine before I can say the words, soft lips on top of mine and then there are no words, and I know he’s right.

There’s nothing to say.

The night drapes across the room slowly and we lie wrapped up together, buried in each other, in this moment.

I’m surprised when I open my eyes again and find it’s already morning, the night long gone and sunlight filling the room. I hadn’t meant to spend the night, and when my eyes land on the alarm clock I remember why – I have a meeting in half an hour with a director they’re considering for next year’s Berkshire run.

He sighs softly beside me, his arm heavy across my chest and I drag my fingers across the back of his hand, wishing that we had more time. But I know he’s seen his one show at Stockbridge, and he’ll be leaving this afternoon. Not because he’s an asshole, but because he and I both know that it has to be that way.

“Hey,” I say softly and his eyes open and he smiles, rolling onto his side and sliding back the sheets. “I gotta go. I have a meeting in town in like 20 minutes, I nearly forgot…” I feel like I’m trying to justify something and I’m rambling and it’s stupid. He knows I have to go. I know he has to go. I just don’t want to.

He nods slowly and doesn’t say anything, just reaches up behind my neck and pulls me against his lips for a soft kiss. His fingers move against the back of my neck, shifting through my longer hair, pulling it between his knuckles.

“I kind of like your hair long,” he says against my face, and I smile and brush my bare cheek against his chin.

“I kind of like this,” I say, rubbing my thumb across his beard.

“It’s just because I’m lazy,” he says and rolls over onto his back. He pulls at his chest hair, dark and more full than I’ve ever seen it. “I’ll have to shave again as soon as I go back to shooting the new series.”

His life is taking off in such a completely different direction than mine. Though I’m pretty sure we’re both doing exactly what we want to do. What we need to do with our lives.

I climb out of bed and find my clothes on the carpet, kicked to all corners of the room, feel his eyes on my back as I pick them up. I’ve always loved the feeling of his eyes on my naked skin, and when I turn around, he’s smiling at me softly, watching as I get dressed.

The silence sits heavy between us, till I’ve finally slipped my flip flops on and slid my messenger bag over my head. I stand at the bottom of the bed and feel my crotch get warm, staring at his lithe, long body, barely hidden under the crisp white hotel linen. In the sun-filled room, I can hardly believe that last night happened. He slides out of bed and pulls his jeans over his hips, leaving them hanging open, then comes to stand in front of me, hands crossed over his chest.

“So… what’re you doing after Stockbridge?” he asks, hair falling across his nose as he looks down, then back up at me.

“Not sure… going back to New York, I guess,” I shrug my shoulders and look away from him, staring at my toes. After spending all those weeks in Alabama doing Shakespeare, then coming here to Stockbridge, the city seems like a distant memory.

“Well, I just bought a house in California. I mean… if you don’t have anything to do in September, you know…” He chews the inside of his cheek, then takes my wrist lightly in his hand, his fingertips resting on my pulse.

I look up at him and smile. “Yeah, I know,” I say softly. “I dunno yet. But… maybe.”

He grins back at me. “Yeah okay. I can do maybe,” he pulls me to him, kissing me on the lips, tongue slipping against mine.

“Okay,” I say against his mouth, breathe slowly, keep my eyes closed for a moment longer. “Maybe.”

He nods against my forehead. “Maybe.”

When the door closes behind me as I leave, I know I’ve never been so sure of a maybe in my life.