Chapter 4: Spilled Secrets
The calm from that Sunday morning became a precious, receding memory.
A few weeks later it happens. Tommy spirals into another one of his anxiety-fueled breakdowns. It didn’t happen suddenly. There were signs. There always were.
The way he’d question his moves directing on set, stopping a perfect take to ask if the lighting was wrong, his confidence fraying at the edges. The way he’d apologize for speaking his mind during meetings, backtracking on brilliant ideas with a strained smile. The way he’d bite his cuticles in the editing bay until they bled little spots onto his keyboard. The way he didn’t sleep, the side of the bed cold and smooth where he’d once lain tangled with Chanse.
Chanse had tried to help him in all the ways he knew how. He’d brought him tea, rubbed the tension from his shoulders, used that soft, firm voice that usually grounded him. He’d let him know he could see it. “You’re in your head, baby,” he’d say, catching Tommy’s hand before it could reach his mouth again.
Tommy knew too. He just couldn’t stop it.
He just couldn’t stop it.
Chanse had left for brunch with some friends. Tommy didn't want to come. But now the quiet of the apartment felt accusing. Steam from the shower coated the bathroom in a damp, grey film. Tommy stood before the mirror, a towel slung low on his hips, and watched the condensation erase his reflection.
He wiped a clear streak with his palm. The man looking back seemed unfamiliar. His hair, still dark at the roots beneath the bleach, was probably thinning. His nose was just a little crooked from that long-ago football mishap. Was he too hairy? The thick trail down his abdomen, the dusting on his chest Chanse loved to map with his tongue—maybe it was just gross. His hips set wide, a structural fact he’d always known, now looked awkward. His muscles, the defined chest and arms Chanse worshipped, weren’t big enough. He probably didn’t put in enough effort. Never did, into anything in his life. It went beyond appearance, Tommy understood that. All of him was filled with flaws. His personality was too loud, a performance that had calcified. His interests were too bland—gym, work, Chanse.
He was a fraud at work, all that confidence just a performance he was forgetting the lines to. He was too needy, clinging to Chanse, always seeking reassurance that he was good, that he was enough. He was boring. He was too much. He was exhausting. The thoughts came in a tight, familiar loop, a buzzing wasp’s nest in his skull. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until colors bloomed. A sound escaped him, something small and broken that the steam swallowed whole.
A sound escaped him, something small and broken that the steam swallowed whole.
He dressed mechanically in impeccably pressed charcoal slacks and a cream linen shirt, his hands steady while his mind screamed. The kitchen was next, a stage for a performance of normalcy. He scrambled eggs with precise, furious motions, the ceramic bowl clicking sharply against the counter.
The front door clicked open just as he was plating food he knew he wouldn’t eat.
Chanse stepped into the living room, dropping his keys into the bowl by the door with a familiar clatter. “Smells good in here,” he called, his voice bright from the sun and company. The brightness died the second he rounded the corner and saw Tommy.
Tommy stood rigid at the granite island, a perfect statue of domesticity crackling with silent distress.
“Hey,” Chanse said, the word soft and careful. He came closer, his hazel eyes scanning Tommy’s perfectly arranged hair, his immaculate shirt, the plates of untouched food. He saw the tremor in the hand gripping the spatula, the vacant stare fixed on the wall. “Tommy.”
“Eggs are ready,” Tommy said, his voice a flat, distant recording. He didn’t move.
Chanse moved then, crossing the space in three swift strides. He took the spatula from Tommy’s grip, his fingers gently prying it loose. He placed both hands on Tommy’s shoulders, the warmth of them seeping through the fine linen. “Sit down.”
“I’m fine,” Tommy insisted, but his body obeyed, lowering onto a stool with a brittle stiffness.
“You are not fine,” Chanse stated, kneeling before him so their eyes were level. He took Tommy’s face in his hands, his thumbs stroking over the high cheekbones. “Where are you right now? Tell me.”
Tommy’s breath hitched. The dam didn’t break; it dissolved. “Why are you even with me?” The words were a torn whisper. “You’re everything. Perfect. I just hold you back.” He looked past Chanse, at the clutter on their table—his half-finished drawings, Chanse’s cap, the bottle of lube from a lazy morning. “We fought so hard to be together, and for what? For my stupid fucking brain and my bland everything to ruin it.”
“Tommy, no,” Chanse said, his voice fierce.
“Did I trick you?” Tommy’s brown eyes, usually so warm, were wide with a terrible certainty. “I don’t deserve you. I know I won’t get to keep you.” A single, hot tear traced a path through his stubble. “That hurts me. Right in my core.”
Chanse watched that tear fall. Something in his own expression shifted, the care hardening into a profound, decisive resolve. Words had failed. He stood up, his movements suddenly deliberate. He locked his gaze on Tommy’s.
“Stand up,” Chanse said, his voice low and utterly commanding.
Tommy blinked, confused, but his body complied, rising on unsteady legs. Chanse closed the distance between them, his hands going to the crisp linen of Tommy’s shirt. Without a word, he gripped the front and pulled, hard. Buttons pinged across the kitchen floor, skittering into corners.
The cool air hit Tommy’s bare chest. Chanse’s eyes raked over the exposed skin, the muscle, the trail of dark hair. “Bland?” Chanse spat the word like a curse. His palm slapped hard against Tommy’s pec, the sharp sound making Tommy gasp. “This is bland?” He leaned in, his mouth hovering over a peaked nipple. “This perfect, thick fucking chest?” He didn’t kiss it. He bit down, a sharp, possessive claim that made Tommy cry out and arch into the pain.
Chanse pulled back, licking his lips. “You think you tricked me?” He spun Tommy around, pushing him face-first against the cool granite of the island countertop. Tommy’s scrambled eggs tumbled to the floor with a wet smack. Chanse’s hands gripped Tommy’s hips, yanking the slacks and boxer briefs down to his thighs in one rough motion.
Tommy was exposed, bent over, his breath fogging the stone. Chanse leaned over his back, his voice a hot, filthy whisper in Tommy’s ear. “You think I don’t know exactly what I have?” One hand smoothed over the pale, muscular curve of Tommy’s ass. “You think I don’t fucking worship this?” His other hand found the bottle of lube on the cluttered table. He popped the cap, the sound obscenely loud.
He poured it, a cold, generous stream that made Tommy jolt. Chanse’s fingers, slick and demanding, didn’t tease. He pressed two inside him immediately, the stretch burning through the shock. Tommy groaned, his forehead pressing hard against the counter, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the smooth surface.
“This is what I want,” Chanse growled, working his fingers deep, scissoring them open. “This tight, perfect heat. All this muscle, shaking for me.” He crooked his fingers, finding that spot with unerring accuracy. Tommy’s knees buckled, a shattered moan ripped from his throat. “You feel that?” Chanse demanded, rubbing hard. “That’s mine. You are mine.”
He withdrew his fingers. Tommy heard the rustle of Chanse’s jeans, the zip, the tear of a foil packet. Then the blunt, wet head of Chanse’s cock was pressing against him, a promise of invasion. Chanse’s body blanketed his back, one hand fisting in Tommy’s bleached hair, forcing his head up.
“Look at us,” Chanse snarled, nodding toward their reflection in the dark kitchen window. Tommy saw it—his own wrecked, desire-twisted face, Chanse’s fierce possession stamped on every feature. “See who I want.” He didn’t ask. He pushed.