Chapter 3: Morning After
The first thing Benji registered was the ache. A pleasant, deep-set soreness in his thighs, a faint twinge in his lower back. Then came the weight: Omar’s arm thrown across his waist, a leg tangled between his own, the solid warmth of another body pressed along his spine. Morning light, pale and determined, sliced through a gap in the curtains, painting a stripe across his forearm and the rumpled sheets.
He blinked slowly, the events of the night reassembling themselves in the silent, dusty air. The scent was still there—sandalwood, sex, and now, underneath it all, the unique, slept-in smell of Omar’s skin. He shifted slightly, and Omar made a soft, protesting noise in his sleep, his fingers curling possessively into the skin of Benji’s hip.
Benji smiled into the pillow. He let his fingertips drift over his own stomach, tracing the faint, blooming bruises left by Omar’s mouth and hands. Purple whispers against caramel. Testaments.
Omar stirred again, his nose nuzzling into the space between Benji’s shoulder blades. A low, sleepy groan vibrated against his skin. “Mm. You’re thinking too loud.”
Benji chuckled, the sound rough with sleep. “Can’t help it. My brain’s an asshole. It’s reviewing the footage.”
Omar’s hand slid from his hip, down over the curve of his ass, giving it a lazy, appreciative squeeze. Benji’s breath hitched. Omar’s voice was a gravelly whisper directly in his ear. “Five-star reviews only, I hope.”
“Critic’s choice,” Benji murmured, pushing back against him. He could feel Omar hardening against him, a slow, insistent pressure. He rolled over to face him. Omar’s hair was a glorious mess, his eyelashes fanning dark against cheeks still flushed from sleep. His eyes, heavy-lidded and still soft with dreams, held a spark of familiar, waking hunger.
Benji leaned in, brushing his lips against Omar’s. “Morning.”
Omar hummed, catching Benji’s lower lip between his teeth for a fleeting, perfect second. “Morning.” He glanced at the window, then back at Benji, a mischievous glint in his eye. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Again?”
The word was a live wire. Benji answered by rolling on top of him, slotting their bodies together with a practiced ease that made Omar gasp. They were both half-hard, the friction of skin on skin electric even in the quiet morning. Benji kissed him, deep and slow, tasting sleep and something uniquely Omar. When he pulled back, they were both laughing, breathless, foreheads touching.
“Insatiable,” Benji breathed, rocking his hips once, twice, just to feel Omar shiver beneath him.
“You’re a bad influence,” Omar retorted, but he was arching up, his hands clutching Benji’s shoulders. The laughter faded, replaced by a slower, more focused heat. It was different in the daylight—less frantic, more tactile. They took their time, relearning each other’s bodies with slow strokes and languid kisses, until the sun had climbed higher and their shared breaths were the only sound in the room.
Afterward, they lay in a damp, contented heap. The high of the night before had settled into a deep, bone-melting satisfaction. Omar traced patterns on Benji’s chest. “I’m starving,” he announced.
“You’re always starving.”
“A growing boy needs sustenance.” Omar stretched, a full-body, feline movement that was beautiful to watch. He sat up, the sheet pooling around his waist. “I have a solution. Two parts, actually.”
“I’m listening.”
“Part one.” Omar leaned over the side of the bed, fumbling in the drawer of his nightstand. He came up with a small, wooden box and a cheap plastic lighter. He popped the lid, revealing a neat little nest of rolling papers and a baggie of green. “Breakfast of champions.”
Benji grinned. “Now you’re speaking my language.”
They sat cross-legged facing each other on the rumpled bed, knees touching. Omar’s fingers, which had been so desperate and demanding just minutes before, were now precise and steady as he pinched herb, sprinkled it along the paper, and rolled it into a tight, perfect cylinder with a few elegant flicks of his wrist. He sealed it with a lick, twirled it between his fingers, and offered it to Benji like a ceremony.
Benji took it, lit it, took the first drag. The smoke was harsh and sweet, expanding in his lungs. He passed it back. Omar took his hit, held it, exhaled slowly up at the ceiling where the sunlight was now dancing with dust motes. A peaceful quiet descended, softer than the one from the night before. This was comfortable. Domestic, almost.
They passed the joint back and forth until it was a tiny roach, which Omar carefully extinguished in the same ceramic dish from before. The world had taken on that familiar, softened edge. Sounds were more distinct; the tick of a clock somewhere, the distant whine of a garbage truck. The colors in the floral wallpaper seemed to vibrate.
Omar stood up, a little unsteady, a silly smile on his face. “Part two,” he said, his voice echoing slightly in the quiet room. “Shower. You smell like me.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s a delicious thing,” Omar corrected, grabbing Benji’s hand and pulling him up. “But a sticky thing. Come on.”
The bathroom was small, tiled in ancient white subway tiles, the grout graying with age. Omar turned the knobs, and a moment later, steam began to billow, fogging the mirror and filling the space with a damp, warm haze. The scent of Omar’s generic, citrusy body wash soon joined the steam.
They stepped in together under the hot spray. It was a tight fit, but neither minded. The water sluiced over them, washing away the sweat and the dried evidence of the night. Omar reached for the bottle of body wash, squeezed a dollop into his palm.
“Turn around,” he said softly.
Benji did, presenting his back to the spray. Omar’s soapy hands landed on his shoulders, his thumbs digging into the knots of tension with surprising strength. Benji groaned, his head dropping forward. Omar worked in silence for a minute, his touch shifting from clinical to caressing. He smoothed his palms over Benji’s shoulder blades, down the dip of his spine, over the curve of his ass, washing him with a thorough, tender focus that felt more intimate than anything they’d done naked in the bed.
“Your turn,” Benji said, his voice muffled by the water.
They switched places. Benji took the bottle, poured soap into his own hands. He started at the nape of Omar’s neck, working the lather into his dark, curly hair, his fingertips massing his scalp. Omar sighed, leaning back into the touch. Benji washed his broad shoulders, the elegant line of his back, his attention lingering on the perfect, globed curves he’d worshipped hours before. He soaped them slowly, reverently, his hands sliding over the slick skin. Omar braced his hands against the tiled wall, his head bowed.
It wasn’t foreplay. It was simpler, and somehow more profound. It was care. When they were both rinsed clean, they just stood there for a long moment, holding each other under the pounding hot water, foreheads touching, the world outside the curtain forgotten.
Eventually, the water began to cool. Omar turned it off. They stepped out, wrapping themselves in two mismatched, thin towels. Omar swiped a hand over the fogged mirror, revealing their blurred reflections: pink-skinned, water-beaded, their eyes soft and heavy-lidded.
Omar met Benji’s gaze in the mirror. “I’m actually starving now,” he said, a laugh in his voice. “There’s a really good cafe around the corner. Best shakshuka in the city. My treat?” He said it casually, but there was a tentative question in his eyes. Breakfast out was a different beast. It was a public appearance. It was daylight. It was a date.
Benji felt a strange, warm lurch in his chest. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Omar’s damp shoulder blade. “Yeah,” he said, his voice echoing slightly in the steamy room. “I’d love that.”
They dressed in the quiet bedroom, pulling on yesterday’s clothes that smelled of club and smoke and now, faintly, of citrus soap. Omar looked… different in the daylight. Not less beautiful, but more real. The subtle anxiety that usually pinched his features was smoothed out, replaced by a calm contentment. He caught Benji looking and smiled, a small, private thing.
The street outside was a typical Brooklyn scene: brownstones, stoops, a bodega on the corner with its grates halfway down. The morning air was cool and crisp, a shock after the humidity of the shower and the warmth of the apartment. They walked close, their shoulders occasionally brushing.
The cafe, The Daily Press, was a narrow, bustling slice of warmth. The air was rich with the smell of coffee, fried eggs, and baking bread. They snagged the last tiny table by the window, their knees knocking underneath. Omar didn’t even look at the menu.
“Two shakshukas, extra pita. And two black coffees,” he told the server, a woman with tired eyes and a swift demeanor. He looked at Benji. “Trust me?”
“With my breakfast? Absolutely.”
The coffees arrived first, bitter and reviving. Benji sipped his, watching Omar stir a single sugar into his, his movements precise. The normalcy of it was dizzying. Just two guys having breakfast.
“So,” Omar said, setting his spoon down. “The bartender by night. What’s the bartender by day?”
Benji shrugged. “Student. Sometimes. Mostly just trying to pay rent and not think about it too hard. Community college. Philosophy.”
Omar’s eyebrows shot up. “Philosophy? Really?”
“What, I don’t look like a deep thinker?” Benji teased.
“You look like you think very deeply about the perfect pour and which customer is going to tip in cash,” Omar countered, a smile playing on his lips. “But philosophy… that’s cool. What kind?”
“The kind that makes you question everything and gives you zero job prospects,” Benji said dryly. “Existentialism, mostly. Camus. The Myth of Sisyphus.”
“The one about the guy pushing the rock forever?”
“Yeah. Absurd hero. Finding meaning in the struggle itself.” Benji took a sip of coffee. “Kinda fits bartending. You make the same drinks for the same sad people every night. The rock rolls back down. You show up anyway.”
Omar was watching him intently, his head cocked. “That’s… bleak. But kinda beautiful.”
“Says the guy who set his rulebook on fire,” Benji said softly, echoing Omar’s words from the night before.
Omar’s cheeks pinked, but he held Benji’s gaze. “Maybe that’s my rock,” he said after a moment. “The pushing is the point.”
Their food arrived then, saving them from spiraling further into metaphor. The shakshuka was served in two small, sizzling cast-iron pans: tomatoes and peppers stewed into a rich, smoky red sauce, with two eggs baked right into the middle, their yolks golden and runny. A stack of warm, charred pita bread sat between them.
It was sublime. They ate mostly in silence, tearing off pieces of pita, dipping them into the sauce, mopping up the eggs. It was messy and perfect. Benji watched Omar lick a spot of sauce from his thumb, his earlier thought returning with force. This felt different. This wasn't a prelude to anything, or a post-game analysis. This was the thing itself.
“My parents think I’m in grad school for engineering,” Omar said abruptly, not looking up from his plate. He swabbed a piece of pita through the yolk. “They’re in Jordan. They send money. I send them photoshopped transcripts and tell them about my fake classes.”
The confession hung in the air between them, heavy amidst the clatter of cutlery and the cafe’s chatter. Benji stopped chewing. He set his pita down.
“Omar.”
“It’s fine,” Omar said quickly, finally looking up. His eyes were bright, a defensive glint in them. “It’s… it’s the arrangement. Lets them sleep at night. Lets me breathe here.”
“And what do you really do?” Benji asked, his voice gentle.
Omar sighed, pushing his pan around slightly. “I work at a non-profit. LGBTQ outreach. Mostly grant writing and running a help line.” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “The irony is fucking tragic, right?”
Benji felt a surge of protectiveness so sharp it stole his breath. He reached across the small table, his fingers covering Omar’s where they rested beside his coffee cup. “It’s not tragic. It’s brave as hell.”
Omar turned his hand over, linking their fingers together. He looked down at their joined hands on the sticky table, then out the window at the passing crowd. “Sometimes it doesn’t feel brave. It just feels like lying.” He squeezed Benji’s hand. “But this… this doesn’t feel like lying.”
The server came to clear their plates, breaking the moment. They pulled their hands back. Omar asked for the check, pulling out his wallet.
Outside, the day had fully awakened. The sun was higher, warming the pavement. They stood on the sidewalk, people flowing around them. Omar hunched his shoulders slightly, hands in his pockets, the comfortable ease from the apartment momentarily dimmed by the exposure of the public street.
“I should probably… get to the library,” Omar said, though it sounded like a question. “Fake engineering masters don’t write their own fake theses.”
Benji nodded. “Yeah. I’ve got a shift at four.”
An awkwardness descended. What was the protocol? A kiss? A handshake? A casual ‘see you around’?
Omar solved it by stepping close, closer than was strictly friendly for a sidewalk in broad daylight. He didn’t kiss him. He just leaned in, his lips brushing Benji’s ear. His voice was low, a private vibration just for him. “My rock feels lighter today.”
Then he stepped back, smiled a small, genuine smile, and turned to walk away. Benji watched him go, the set of his shoulders, the confident stride that was so at odds with the scared boy from the bar just two nights ago. He stood there until Omar turned the corner and disappeared from view.
The city sounds rushed back in: the traffic, a distant siren, the snippets of a hundred conversations. Benji brought his fingers to his own lips, remembering the taste of shakshuka and coffee and something else, something new and terrifyingly sweet. He turned and started walking in the opposite direction, the ghost of Omar’s touch still humming on his skin, the absurd, beautiful weight of a newfound meaning settling in his chest.
He turned and started walking in the opposite direction, the ghost of Omar’s touch still humming on his skin, the absurd, beautiful weight of a newfound meaning settling in his chest.
His phone buzzed in his pocket before he’d even reached the end of the block.
It was a text. An unknown number. The preview read: ‘Hey. It’s Omar. You left before I…’
Benji’s heart did a stupid little flip. He fumbled the phone, thumb smearing the screen as he opened it.
The full message was simpler. Got your number from Kelly. Hope that’s okay.
A pause. Three dots appeared, bounced, disappeared, then returned.
The shakshuka wasn’t the only good part of my morning.
Benji leaned against a brick wall, a grin breaking across his face. He typed back, Kelly’s a snitch. And yeah, my morning was pretty stellar too. The review stands.
The reply was almost immediate. Five stars?
Six. Benji sent. Breakfast included.
The rest of the day unfolded in the palm of his hand. Benji’s shift at the bar was a dull, sunlit haze of polishing glassware and prepping lime wedges. His phone, face-up on the stainless steel counter, was a live wire.
Omar’s texts were a steady, delicious distraction.
My fake thesis is fighting me. It’s very stubborn.
Benji responded, Tell it Sisyphus says hello.
A photo arrived an hour later. A messy, textbook-strewn desk, a laptop with dense equations on the screen, and in the corner of the frame, a familiar ceramic dish holding a freshly-rolled joint. The caption: My muse.
Benji laughed aloud, startling the day-shift barback. He took a picture of his own workspace—a mop bucket and a case of cheap vodka. My muse is less inspiring.
Disagree, Omar texted back. The man makes the muse.
The texts spiraled from there. Silly, random observations about the city filtering through their respective windows. A debate about the best Lord of the Rings movie that grew unexpectedly heated. Omar sent a voice memo of himself humming a Sade song while he worked, and the low, off-key warmth of it curled in Benji’s stomach for hours.
It was easy. It was stupidly, perfectly easy. The bar’s afternoon shadows stretched long and blue across the floor. Benji was slicing oranges when his phone buzzed again.
This text was different. No immediate follow-up. No three dots. Just a single line.
Dinner tonight? I’m a better cook than The Daily Press.
Benji wiped his sticky hands on his apron, considering. He wanted to say yes immediately, but a little devil on his shoulder made him pause. He tapped back, What’s on the menu?
The response took a full minute. Benji watched the screen, the anticipation a fizzy liquid in his veins.
His phone finally chimed. It wasn’t a text.
It was a picture.
Taken from behind, in what Benji recognized instantly as Omar’s bedroom. The faded floral wallpaper, the soft lamp glow. Omar was facing away, looking over his shoulder at the camera. He was wearing only those thin gray sweatpants, slung low on his hips. The fabric stretched tight over the exquisite, full curve of his ass, the shadowed cleft just visible. The light caressed the slope of his lower back, the dimples there. It was artful. It was obscene. It was a question and an answer all at once.
The caption followed a second later: Appetizer.
Benji’s breath left his body. He stared at the image, the bar around him dissolving into a muffled silence. He could almost smell the sandalwood, feel the texture of those sheets.
His fingers moved before his brain caught up. He typed, deleted, typed again. He settled on the raw, visceral truth.
I wouldn’t need a menu. I could eat that ass all day.
He hit send. The boldness of it, the sheer specificity, left his own ears ringing. He half-expected Omar to balk, to retract into shyness.
Omar’s reply was swift. Promises, promises. 8pm? I’ll make the main course.
Then, a second later: And Benji? Bring your appetite.
The rest of Benji’s shift passed in a blur of citrus scent and adrenaline. The text thread glowed on his lock screen, that photo a secret, incendiary gift. He finished his closing duties in record time, his mind already miles away, in a room of floral wallpaper and warm light.
At ten to eight, he stood outside Omar’s building, a bottle of cheap wine sweating in his hand. The earlier ease was gone, replaced by a sharp, electric anticipation. This wasn't just dinner. It was a continuation, a deepening.
He knocked. The door opened almost instantly.
Omar stood there, backlit by the warm glow of the apartment. He wore a simple black t-shirt and soft-looking linen pants. His hair was damp, curling at the ends. He smelled of soap and something peppery simmering from the kitchen. His eyes, dark and knowing, flicked from Benji’s face to the bottle of wine and back.
"Hey," Omar said, a soft smile playing on his lips.
"Hey yourself," Benji replied, stepping inside. The familiar scent of spices wrapped around him, but now underneath it was the clean, warm scent of Omar himself. He held up the wine. "I brought libations."
Omar took the bottle, his fingers brushing Benji’s. "A man of culture." He turned toward the small kitchen area. "It’s almost ready. It’s called musakhan. Chicken, sumac, onions, flatbread."
"Sounds incredible."
Omar glanced over his shoulder, the smile turning sly. "You haven't seen anything yet."