Chapter 4: Burnt Offerings
The scent of burning caramelized onions hit Benji the moment the door closed behind him, cutting through the clean soap smell of Omar’s shower-damp skin. It was a rich, deep, slightly acrid aroma. Omar’s eyes went wide.
“Shit,” he hissed, spinning around and darting for the kitchen.
Benji followed, toeing off his shoes by the door. The small kitchen was indeed warm and cluttered, just as he’d imagined. Copper pots hung from a rack, dried chilies and braids of garlic dangled from another. The counter was a landscape of scattered spices in small bowls, chopped herbs, and a sticky-looking bottle of olive oil. On the stove, in a large skillet, a beautiful chaos of golden-brown onions and sumac-darkened chicken was just starting to char at the edges. Omar was already grabbing a wooden spoon, frantically stirring.
“It’s not ruined,” Omar declared, more to himself than to Benji. “It’s just… extra crispy. Character.”
Benji leaned against the doorway, watching the focused set of Omar’s shoulders beneath the thin black cotton. “Smells like character, yeah.”
Omar shot him a mock glare over his shoulder. “You’re distracting the chef. Open the wine. Glasses are above the sink.”
Benji obeyed, finding two mismatched glasses—one a cheap wine glass, the other a novelty mug that said ‘I ♥ NY’ in fading letters. He poured the red wine, a cheap but drinkable Malbec, and handed the mug to Omar. Omar took a hefty sip without leaving his post at the stove, his free hand deftly flipping flatbreads on a separate burner.
“To not burning down the apartment,” Benji said, clinking his glass against the mug.
“A noble toast,” Omar agreed, a smile finally returning to his eyes. “Now get out. I need to plate this masterpiece without your judging eyes.”
Benji retreated to the main room, sinking onto the low-slung sofa. He let his head fall back, absorbing the quiet hum of the refrigerator, the sizzle from the kitchen, the faint, ever-present scent of spices embedded in the very walls. It felt impossibly domestic. A far cry from the sticky floors and pounding bass of the club, or the tense, anonymous encounters that had filled so many of his recent nights.
Omar emerged a few minutes later, bearing two plates laden with food. The musakhan was a gorgeous, rustic pile: shredded chicken and deeply browned onions stained purple with sumac, all piled on pieces of flatbread that had been baked to a blistered perfection. It smelled like heaven—warm, earthy, complex.
They ate on the floor, using the coffee table, their knees touching. For a while, there was only the sound of chewing, of satisfied hums.
“Oh my god,” Benji managed around a mouthful. The flavors exploded—tangy sumac, sweet onion, the savory richness of the chicken, the chewy, smoky bread. “Omar. This is insane.”
Omar beamed, a flush of pride coloring his cheeks. “It’s my Teta’s recipe. Well, my version of it. She’d kill me for using pre-made bread.”
“Your Teta can fight me for this plate,” Benji said, shoveling in another bite.
They talked as they ate—easy, wandering talk. Omar explained the importance of sumac, the way his grandmother would toast the spices herself. Benji recounted a disastrous shift at the bar where a bachelorette party had tried to make a cocktail using every pink liquor in the well. They laughed, their legs tangling further under the table.
The wine bottle emptied slowly, then all at once. The world took on a warm, soft-focus glow. The single lamp in the corner cast a cozy pool of light over their makeshift feast, leaving the corners of the room in comfortable shadow. Benji felt full, content, pleasantly loose-limbed.
Omar watched him over the rim of his I ♥ NY mug, his dark eyes glittering. “You have a little…” He gestured to his own chin.
Benji swiped at his face. “Did I get it?”
“No. Other side.” Benji tried again. Omar shook his head, a slow smile spreading. “Here.” He leaned forward, his thumb brushing the corner of Benji’s mouth, coming away with a smear of onion and sumac. Instead of wiping it on a napkin, Omar brought his thumb to his own lips and licked it clean, never breaking eye contact.
The air in the room shifted, thickening. The simple act was more erotic than any blatant move in the club. Benji’s breath caught.
Omar leaned back, his gaze knowing. He reached for the small wooden box on the bookshelf, the same one from the morning. He pulled out the familiar baggie and papers. His movements were slow, deliberate, as he crafted the joint right there on the coffee table amidst the empty plates.
“Dessert,” he said softly, sealing the paper with a final lick.
He lit it, took the first hit, held it for a beat before passing it to Benji. The smoke was sweeter this time, mellower, mingling with the lingering aromas of their meal. They passed it back and forth in silence, the joint dwindling to a roach. The high crept in, a gentle wave that smoothed the last remaining sharp edges from the world.
Omar stood up, stretching his arms over his head. The hem of his t-shirt rode up, exposing a strip of smooth, tan stomach. He looked down at Benji, his expression unreadable. Without a word, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his linen pants and boxers and pushed them down in one smooth motion, stepping out of the pooled fabric. He stood there, bathed in the lamplight, in just a pair of black boxer briefs that hugged the curve of his ass perfectly.
Benji just stared, the joint forgotten between his fingers.
Then Omar did the same with his t-shirt, pulling it over his head and dropping it on the floor. His chest was smooth, his frame lean but defined. He was beautiful, and he knew it.
“A little warm,” Omar said, his voice casual, though a faint tremor of vulnerability ran underneath.
Benji, feeling the charge in the room, followed suit. He stood, shucking his jeans and shirt, until he too stood in just his boxers. The cooler air of the apartment raised goosebumps on his skin.
Omar took the roach from Benji’s limp fingers, extinguishing it in the same ceramic dish from the nightstand. He turned back, his eyes traveling slowly down Benji’s body and back up. A sly, playful look replaced the earlier vulnerability.
“This couch is nice,” Omar murmured, nodding toward the worn sofa. “But you know what would make it better?”
“What?” Benji’s voice was rough.
Omar closed the distance between them. He placed a hand on Benji’s chest, gently pushing him back until his knees hit the sofa and he sat down with a soft whump. Omar stood before him, looking down with dark, heavy-lidded eyes.
“If I sat on your lap,” he said, the words a quiet challenge. “Can I?”
Benji could only nod, his throat tight. He spread his legs slightly in invitation.
Omar turned, presenting that breathtaking view, and slowly, deliberately, lowered himself onto Benji’s thighs. His weight was perfect, solid and warm. He settled back, his body resting against Benji’s chest, his head tilting to the side to rest against Benji’s. Benji’s hands came up instinctively, settling on Omar’s bare hips, his thumbs stroking the soft skin just above the band of his boxers.
Omar reached for the freshly rolled joint waiting on the table, lit it, and took a long pull. He exhaled a plume of smoke toward the ceiling, the muscles of his back relaxing further against Benji. He passed the joint over his shoulder.
Benji took it, his other hand sliding around to splay across Omar’s stomach, holding him close. He took a hit, the smoke curling into his lungs, enhancing every sensation—the heat of Omar’s skin, the beat of his heart against Benji’s palm, the faint scent of sandalwood and cannabis in his curls.
Omar shifted, turning his head just enough. His lips found the sensitive spot beneath Benji’s ear. He kissed him there, soft as a breath. Then again, a little firmer, his lips parting slightly. Benji tilted his head, granting access, a shudder running through him. Omar continued to place these slow, open-mouthed kisses along his jaw, his temple, the corner of his mouth, while the joint burned slowly between Benji’s fingers, forgotten.
The forgotten joint’s ash grew perilously long before it finally dropped, disintegrating on the rug between Benji’s bare feet. He noticed none of it. His entire world had narrowed to the wet heat of Omar’s mouth exploring his skin, the solid weight of him in his lap, the slight friction of their underwear as Omar shifted again.
Omar’s head dipped lower. His lips, softer than Benji expected, brushed the hollow of his throat. A small, breathy sound escaped Benji’s lips. Then Omar moved again, lower still, his mouth finding the flat plane of Benji’s chest. He traced a collarbone with his tongue, a slow, deliberate stripe that made Benji’s hands tighten on his hips.
Then Omar’s mouth closed over a nipple.
The sensation was sharp, electric, a bolt of pure pleasure that seemed to shoot directly to Benji’s core. Omar didn’t just kiss it. He licked, a slow, flat stroke that was achingly thorough. Arousal, thick and immediate, flooded Benji’s system, his body tensing, a low groan tearing from his throat.
“Oh, fuck,” Benji breathed, his head falling back against the couch cushions. His fingers tangled in Omar’s dark curls, not guiding, just holding on.
Omar hummed against his skin, the vibration sending another jolt through him. He attended to that nipple with a focused intensity—licking, then sucking gently, his teeth grazing the peak with just enough pressure to make Benji arch his back. Just as the sensation bordered on overwhelming, Omar switched sides, giving the same relentless attention to the other.
“You’re so sensitive here,” Omar murmured, his words a warm puff against Benji’s damp skin. He lifted his head, his eyes dark and shining with undisguised delight. “Your whole body just… jumped.”
“You’re a fucking menace,” Benji managed, his voice ragged. Every nerve felt live-wired, every thought dissolving into static and need. He could feel himself hardening painfully against the confines of his boxers, a direct and urgent response to Omar’s mouth.
Omar smiled, a wicked, beautiful thing. He rose up on his knees, still straddling Benji’s thighs. He brought his hands to Benji’s face, cradling his jaw, his thumbs stroking his cheekbones.
“Good,” Omar whispered, his own breathing becoming uneven. He looked utterly in control, a conqueror pleased with the territory he’d claimed. But Benji saw the tremor in his hands, the desperate wanting in his eyes that mirrored his own.
It was the final knot loosening. Benji surged upward, capturing Omar’s mouth in a kiss that was anything but slow. It was all heat and hunger, a clash of tongues and shared breath. Omar melted into it with a soft, surrendering sound, his arms winding around Benji’s neck.
They kissed like that for a long, desperate minute, rocking against each other, the thin fabric of their underwear now a maddening barrier. The familiar taste of smoke and wine on Omar’s tongue was now layered with something new, something uniquely, intimately Omar. Benji’s hands roamed down Omar’s back, over the perfect curves he’d washed just that morning, gripping the firm flesh through the soft cotton.
He broke the kiss, gasping for air, his forehead pressed against Omar’s. “Bedroom,” Benji choked out. It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah,” Omar panted, nodding. He scrambled off Benji’s lap, nearly stumbling in his haste, and grabbed Benji’s hand. They didn’t bother with clothes. They left the dishes, the wine, the soft lamp glow, and half-walked, half-stumbled the few feet into the bedroom, a tangle of eager limbs.
The familiar scent of sandalwood and slept-in sheets enveloped them as they fell onto the mattress in a heap. Omar landed on his back, pulling Benji down on top of him. Their bodies slotted together, skin against hot skin, the evidence of their mutual need pressing insistently through the last layer of fabric.
Omar’s hands were everywhere—in Benji’s hair, skimming down his spine, sliding over his ass. Benji kissed him again, deep and searching, before trailing his own mouth down Omar’s neck, his chest, intent on returning the devastating favor.
But Omar’s hands caught his head, gently guiding him back up. His eyes, in the dim light filtering from the other room, were serious.
“Wait,” Omar whispered, his voice tight with an emotion that wasn’t just arousal. “Benji. Just… look at me for a second.”
Benji stilled, propping himself up on his elbows. He looked. He saw the flush on Omar’s cheeks, the parted lips, the slight, nervous bite of his own bottom lip. He saw the shadow of fear, and the brighter, braver light of want shining right through it.
“I’m looking,” Benji said softly, brushing a curl from Omar’s forehead.
Omar’s throat worked as he swallowed. “This isn’t… I’m not just the appetizer tonight.”
The words hung there, simple and profound. Benji understood. This wasn’t just another hookup, another escape. This was Omar, offering more of himself than just his body. He was offering the shaky, complicated truth of what he was starting to feel.
Benji lowered himself slowly, until they were nose to nose. He kissed Omar, gently, once on the lips. “I know,” he murmured against his mouth. “You’re the main course. And I’m starving.”
The relief that washed over Omar’s face was profound. It broke into a real, unguarded smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. The last vestige of tension left his body, and he wrapped his legs around Benji’s waist, pulling him closer, fully into the heat and the promise of the night.
The last vestige of tension left his body, and he wrapped his legs around Benji’s waist, pulling him closer, fully into the heat and the promise of the night. Benji felt the length of Omar’s arousal press against his own through their underwear, a hard, thrilling friction. He kissed him again, deeper, losing himself in the taste and the feel.
But a quiet, insistent voice surfaced in the haze of his want. It was the voice from the sunny sidewalk, the one that recognized this was different. This wasn’t a stranger in a shadowed corner of the club. This was Omar, with his fake engineering degree and his real, terrifying courage. Benji broke the kiss, breathing hard, his forehead resting against Omar’s.
“Hey,” Benji whispered.
“Hey,” Omar breathed back, his hips making a small, involuntary upward roll.
Benji caught his gaze and held it. He smoothed a thumb over Omar’s cheekbone. “Just so we’re on the same page,” he said, his voice low but clear. “Tonight, for me… just a blowjob. Okay?”
Omar’s eyes, which had been glazed with desire, sharpened instantly. He searched Benji’s face, a flicker of confusion and something like hurt passing through them. He went very still beneath him. “Just a… what?”
“Just that,” Benji said softly. He dipped his head to brush a kiss against Omar’s jaw. “I want to take my time with you. I don’t want to rush past… all of this.”
Omar was silent for a long moment. Benji could feel the questions churning behind his eyes. “Is this… because of what I said?” Omar asked, his voice small. “About not being just the appetizer?”
“It’s because of everything you said,” Benji corrected gently. He shifted his weight to one side, tracing the line of Omar’s shoulder. “The shit with your parents. Your Teta’s recipe. Your rock.” He smiled a little. “I want to savor the menu. Not just devour the whole feast in one go.”
A slow understanding dawned on Omar’s face, tempering the initial sting of rejection. He wasn’t being denied; he was being seen. “So, it’s not that you don’t want…?”
Benji laughed, a soft puff of air against Omar’s skin. He guided Omar’s hand down, pressing it against the hard evidence trapped beneath his boxers. “Does it feel like I don’t want?”
Omar’s breath hitched, his fingers curling instinctively. “No.”
“It’s the opposite,” Benji murmured, leaning close again. His lips hovered a whisper from Omar’s. “I want too much. So tonight, I’m choosing one thing. And I’m going to do it very, very well.”
He watched the conflict play out across Omar’s features—the flash of frustrated lust, the dawning appreciation for the intention, the surrender to a new kind of trust. Omar finally let out a long, controlled exhale. The tightness in his shoulders melted away. A new, different kind of hunger lit his eyes.
“Okay,” Omar said, simply. Then a sly, challenged smile touched his lips. “Your philosophy is fucking weird, Camus.”
Benji grinned, relieved. “Told you.” He rolled off of Omar, lying beside him on the rumpled sheets. He propped himself up on an elbow, looking down at him. “My turn to be the muse?”
Omar turned onto his side, facing him. He reached out, his fingers tracing the waistband of Benji’s boxers. “Promise you won’t be stubborn?”
“I’m a perfect angel.”
Omar snorted, hooking his fingers into the fabric. “Yeah, that’s what my Teta would call you.” He tugged, and Benji lifted his hips to help him slide the boxers down and off. The cool air of the room was a shock against his heated skin. He was fully, achingly hard.
Omar’s gaze traveled the length of him, his expression one of open, reverent appreciation. No one had ever looked at Benji quite like that—not just with want, but with a quiet, awe-struck curiosity. It was unnerving and exhilarating.
“You’re staring,” Benji said, his voice slightly strangled.
“I’m appreciating the appetizer,” Omar countered, a playful glint returning. He shifted lower on the bed, settling between Benji’s legs. He didn’t dive in. He placed a single, soft kiss on the inside of Benji’s thigh, just above the knee. Then another, an inch higher. His lips were warm, slightly chapped. He was mapping him, this time with a deliberate, torturous patience.
Benji’s head fell back against the pillow, a groan escaping him. He tangled his hands in the sheets. Omar’s mouth moved higher, leaving a trail of faint, damp kisses along his sensitive inner thigh. He was so close, his breath a hot ghost over Benji’s straining erection, but he didn’t touch him there. Not yet.
“You’re a fucking tease,” Benji gritted out.
Omar hummed against his skin, the vibration singing through Benji’s nerves. “You said to take my time.” He finally, finally, closed his lips around the base, not taking him in, just applying a firm, warm pressure. He lingered there, his tongue pressing flat against the underside.
Benji swore, his hips bucking off the mattress involuntarily. Omar released him, chuckling softly. He looked up, his eyes glittering in the dim light. “Patience.”
“I have none.”
“Then learn,” Omar said, and lowered his mouth again.
This time, he took him in slowly, with an agonizing, perfect slick heat. There was no performative skill, no rushed technique. It was all exploration—a slow, deep slide, a retreat, a change of angle, a flick of the tongue over the head. He learned what made Benji jerk, what made him moan, what made his thighs tremble. He paid attention to every hitch of breath, every whispered curse.
It was devastating. Benji had received plenty of blowjobs in his life, but never one like this. This was an act of focus, of study. It felt less like being serviced and more like being known. The pressure built, coil after tight coil, in the base of his spine. His perceptions narrowed to the wet heat of Omar’s mouth, the gentle scrape of his teeth, the sight of his dark head moving between his thighs.
Omar pulled off with a wet sound, catching his breath. He rested his cheek on Benji’s thigh, his own arousal evident against the sheets. “You taste different than I thought,” he murmured, his voice ragged.
“How?” Benji managed, carding a hand through Omar’s sweat-damp curls.
Omar looked up, his lips swollen and shiny. “Like the wine. And the smoke.” He smiled, a tired, beautiful thing. “And you.”
He took Benji back into his mouth, and this time his rhythm changed. It became purposeful, relentless. Benji felt the precipice approach, a white-hot wave gathering force. He tried to warn him, his hand tightening in Omar’s hair, a strangled, “Omar, I’m—”
Omar didn’t pull away. He took him deeper, swallowing around him, and the world fractured into pure, blinding sensation. Benji came with a broken sound, his back arching off the bed, his vision spotting. The waves seemed to go on and on, pulled from him by the unwavering suction of Omar’s mouth.
When it was over, he collapsed, boneless and gasping, into the mattress. Omar rested his head on Benji’s stomach, his own breathing harsh. They lay there for a long moment, connected only by the quiet and the fading pulses of aftershock.
Slowly, Omar crawled up the bed, collapsing beside him. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looking thoroughly wrecked and supremely satisfied. Benji, still trying to remember how to form words, turned his head on the pillow to face him.
“You,” Benji breathed, “are a natural disaster.”
Omar grinned, but it was a softer thing now, edged with exhaustion and a deep contentment. “Told you I was a good student.”
Benji reached for him, pulling him into a lazy, deep kiss. He could taste himself, sharp and salty, on Omar’s tongue. It was intimate in a way that felt fundamentally new. He broke the kiss, pulling Omar against his chest, tucking him under his chin. Omar went willingly, his body molding against Benji’s side.
They lay in silence, the only sound their slowing breaths. The lamp from the other room cast a long, golden rectangle across the foot of the bed. Benji’s mind was quiet, blissfully empty. He traced idle patterns on Omar’s bare shoulder.
Omar’s voice, when it came, was muffled against his chest. “So. That was the appetizer.”
Benji smiled into the dark. “That was the entire tasting menu.”
Omar shifted, propping himself up on an elbow. He looked down at Benji, his expression suddenly serious. “You’re not… going to leave now, are you?”
The question hung in the air, small and vulnerable. It was about more than the physical act they’d just shared. It was about the shared shakshuka, the fake thesis, the fear in his eyes when he’d spoken of his parents.
Benji reached up and cupped Omar’s cheek. “My rock feels pretty light right here,” he said, repeating Omar’s own words back to him.
Omar’s eyes shone. He nodded once, a quick, decisive dip of his chin, as if settling something within himself. He then sighed, a theatrical, put-upon sound, and flopped back down, throwing an arm across Benji’s chest. “Good. Because I’m still starving. And you promised me a main course.”
Benji laughed, the sound rumbling in his chest beneath Omar’s arm. “Tomorrow,” he whispered into his hair, holding him tighter as the city’s distant sounds filtered through the old windows. “I promise.”