Chapter 13: Screen and Skin
Kenny’s body sang a chorus of pleasant aches as he slid off the table, his legs trembling slightly as his feet found the floor. He pulled the borrowed sweatpants back up over his hips, the fabric soft and forgiving. Buck remained where he was, leaning against the table’s edge, completely naked and gleaming in the messy kitchen light. The contrast was absurd, beautiful. Kenny, covered in the evidence of their frantic coupling, and Buck, standing amid the wreckage of breakfast like a fallen warrior.
“Well,” Kenny breathed, looking at the egg-smeared plate on the floor, the fork under the table. “We made a mess.”
“Worth it,” Buck rumbled, but he pushed off the table and began moving with that efficient, economical grace. He righted the toppled chair, then bent—a breathtaking display of muscle and motion—to pick up the plate. Kenny watched the powerful flex of his back, the vivid bites standing out like dark roses against his skin, and felt a fresh, dizzying surge of possession.
They cleaned in a comfortable, wordless synchronicity. Kenny ran a warm, soapy cloth over the table, wiping away the smears. Buck rinsed the plate and loaded it into the dishwasher, his nakedness a stunning, casual fact in the domestic space. Kenny wiped the counters, his eyes constantly drifting back. He saw Buck wince, just slightly, as he reached for a high cupboard to put away the butter.
The small flicker of pain grounded Kenny. He tossed the cloth into the sink and leaned back against the counter. The quiet hum of the refrigerator filled the room.
“Maggie said the shop’s closed today,” Kenny said, his voice softer than he intended. He fiddled with the hem of the overlarge Henley. “Erm… do you still want me to stay here?”
Buck turned. He looked at Kenny—really looked—taking in the tousled hair, the swollen lips, the way he stood in the middle of Buck’s kitchen as if he both belonged and was waiting for permission. A slow, genuine smile softened Buck’s face, erasing the last traces of the wild man from the table. It was a sunrise of an expression, warm and inevitable.
“Who else,” Buck said, stepping closer, the space between them crackling anew, “is going to nurse me back to health today?”
Kenny’s answering smile was immediate, relief and delight sparking in his hazel eyes. He closed the small distance, his fingers tracing a light, proprietary path over the bruise on Buck’s collarbone. “Well,” Kenny murmured, his voice dropping to a playful, clinical tone. “Your new caregiver says that if you really want to recover, you have to stay this way the whole day.” He gestured vaguely at Buck’s glorious nudity.
Buck gave him a look, his blue eyes narrowing with amused suspicion. “You’re sneaky.”
Kenny giggled, the sound bright and unguarded in the cozy kitchen. He let his forehead rest against Buck’s sternum, breathing him in. Soap, sex, skin.
After a moment, Buck’s hand came up to stroke his hair. “Remember the book you passed me? Heated Rivalry?”
Kenny nodded against his chest, the memory of handing the well-loved paperback over the bookstore counter feeling like a lifetime ago. A first, tentative thread.
“Apparently they have a TV series streaming on HBO Max,” Buck continued, his fingers threading through Kenny’s messy brown hair. “Shall we watch it together? See if they did your book justice?”
Kenny leaned back, his face alight. “Yes. Absolutely.”
The living room was a cave of comfort, the low fire in the hearth painting everything in gold and shadow. Buck, true to his ‘care instructions’, did not dress. He simply grabbed a worn, grey blanket from the back of an armchair and sank onto the larger of the two sofas, stretching his long legs out. Kenny curled up beside him, not under the blanket but against the solid, bare heat of him. He grabbed the remote, found the show, and started the first episode.
It was good. Better than good. The chemistry between the actors who played Shane and Ilya was a palpable, crackling thing. Kenny got lost in it, pointing out differences from the book, murmuring commentary. Buck listened, his arm around Kenny’s shoulders, his chin resting on top of Kenny’s head.
About twenty minutes in, the tension on screen spiraled from competitive banter into something hotter, denser. A charged confrontation in a sterile locker room hallway dissolved into a brutal, perfect kiss. Bodies slammed against metal lockers. Hands tugged at clothing.
Kenny felt the shift beside him. Not just in Buck’s breathing, which shallowed, but in the firm warmth under his cheek. He glanced down. The grey blanket had tented over Buck’s lap, a clear, rising outline.
Kenny looked up.
Buck was already looking down at him, his blue eyes dark, the pupils blown wide. The flickering firelight caught the planes of his face, the set of his jaw. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.
On screen, the scene progressed with a raw, cinematic hunger. Clothes were shed. Shane, all fierce American intensity, dropped to his knees on the tiled floor. The camera focused on his face, then on Ilya’s look of stunned, unraveling pleasure as Shane’s mouth took him.
The sounds from the surround-sound speakers were immersive, wet, and desperate.
Kenny held Buck’s gaze. He shifted, sliding down the couch until he was kneeling on the floor between Buck’s spread legs. He placed his hands on Buck’s knees, feeling the coarse hair and the powerful muscle beneath.
“Focus on that hot scene,” Kenny whispered, his voice barely audible over the actors’ moans.
He didn’t look away from Buck as he pulled the blanket aside. Buck was fully, impressively hard, the length of him curving against his stomach. Kenny leaned in, his breath ghosting over the heated skin. He watched Buck’s abs clench, saw the shudder that racked his frame.
Then Kenny lowered his mouth, taking Buck deep in one smooth, practiced glide.
Buck’s head fell back against the couch with a thud, a strangled groan tearing from his throat. His hands fisted in the cushions. Kenny worked him with the same rhythmic, wet precision he’d admired on screen, but this was real. This was the taste of him, the weight on his tongue, the live-wire feedback of every twitch and pulse. He hollowed his cheeks, his tongue swirling the broad head in time with Shane’s fictional motions.
“Kenny… fuck,” Buck gasped, his hips lifting off the couch in a helpless, shallow thrust.
Kenny hummed in response, the vibration drawing another shattered sound from above. He slipped a hand beneath, cupping the heavy weight of Buck’s balls, rolling them gently as he sucked. On the TV, Ilya was shouting, the scene reaching its crescendo. Buck’s breathing grew ragged, chaotic. His fingers found Kenny’s hair, not pushing, just holding on, a anchor point in the storm.
It wasn’t going to take long. Buck was still hypersensitive from the morning, from everything. Kenny could feel the telltale tightening, the frantic pulse under his lips. He sped up, his own need a distant echo, entirely focused on pulling this climax from Buck, on making the fiction on screen pale in comparison to their reality.
With a choked cry that was part Kenny’s name, part a wordless shout, Buck came. Kenny swallowed, taking every hot, salty pulse, his throat working until Buck was spent, soft, and trembling.
Kenny rested his cheek on Buck’s thigh, catching his breath. On screen, the scene had faded to black, the credits music beginning to swell. The only sounds in the room were the crackling fire and their mingled, heavy breathing.
Buck’s hand, gentle now, stroked through Kenny’s hair. “They got it all wrong,” Buck murmured, his voice wrecked and wondrous.
Kenny looked up, his chin still damp. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Buck tugged him up, pulling him back onto the couch and into his arms, blanket and all. He kissed Kenny, deep and slow, a tasting kiss. “Not even close.”
The kiss lingered, a soft, closing punctuation to the frantic scene before it. Kenny settled back against Buck’s side, his head finding its familiar spot on the solid shoulder. He clicked ‘Next Episode.’ The fire popped, sending a flurry of sparks up the flue as the recap began.
For twenty minutes, they existed in a warm, silent bubble. Kenny’s fingers traced idle patterns on Buck’s stomach, over the ridges of muscle and the scattered bites. Buck’s breathing was a steady rumble under his ear. On screen, the fictional tension built in a hotel room now, champagne glittering in ice buckets, the air thick with unspoken history.
Shane shoved Ilya against the wall, a bottle cap digging into the plaster. “Congratulations, you arrogant asshole,” Shane growled, but his voice was already cracking. “Player of the Year.” Ilya’s smile was all sharp edges and shattered pride. He didn’t say a word. He just hauled Shane in and kissed him like he was trying to win a different, more brutal game.
Kenny felt Buck’s heartbeat pick up under his palm.
The fictional kiss broke. Ilya, back against the wall, pointed a shaky finger at the bed. His command was a guttural order. “Strip. Show me how you do it when I am not there. Show me how you think of me.” Shane’s eyes flashed with defiance, then a deep, helpless hunger. He complied, his movements deliberate and slow, each article of clothing a surrender. He sat on the edge of the mattress, the light from the window cutting across his torso, and wrapped a hand around himself.
The room was silent except for the actor’s controlled, hitched breathing. The camera loved the strain in his forearm, the sweat at his temple.
Kenny’s own breath caught. The heat from the screen seemed to bleed into the cool cottage air. He couldn’t look away, but he needed to touch, to connect this fiction to his overwhelming reality. He turned his head, pressed his open mouth against the side of Buck’s neck, and sucked lightly on the salt-damp skin there. It was less a kiss than a claiming, a silent I’m here, this is us.
Buck jerked under him, a full-body tremor. His hand, which had been resting on Kenny’s arm, slid down his own stomach. Kenny heard the soft rustle of the blanket, the subtle shift of fabric. When he glanced down, he saw Buck’s fist moving under the grey wool, a slow, firm rhythm already established. The sight was more devastating than anything on television.
“Kenny,” Buck whispered, his voice gravel.
That one word, ragged and full of need, snapped something. Kenny pushed himself up. He pulled the oversized Henley over his head in one swift motion, his own skin pebbling in the air. The sweatpants and briefs followed, kicked into a heap on the floor. He didn’t give Buck a chance to look, to think. He just climbed over him, knees bracketing Buck’s hips, and captured his mouth.
The kiss was all tongue and heat, a messy conduit for the energy crackling through them. Buck’s free hand came up to grip Kenny’s jaw, holding him there. Under him, Buck’s hips kept up that relentless, rhythmic push into his own fist.
Kenny broke the kiss, panting. “Stop that.”
Buck’s eyes were glazed, his movements faltering. “What?”
“Stop touching yourself,” Kenny said, and it was not a request. He shifted back, his hand replacing Buck’s, his fingers wrapping around the hot, hard length. He gave one slow, tight stroke, his thumb smearing the bead of moisture at the tip. “I’m here.”
A ragged groan tore from Buck’s throat. In a fluid, powerful surge, he rolled them. Kenny’s back hit the soft cushions of the couch, and Buck was over him, a wall of warm, scarred skin and intention. The blanket was lost somewhere. The only light came from the flickering television, painting Buck’s face in shifting blue and white.
Buck didn’t ask. He reached for the lotion they’d left on the side table after the morning, squeezed a generous amount into his palm. His touch was urgent, less careful than before, working Kenny open with two fingers in a fast, burning stretch. Kenny arched, a sharp cry punched from his lungs, his nails digging into Buck’s biceps.
“Now,” Kenny gasped, his heels digging into the back of Buck’s thighs. “Right now, Evan.”
Buck lined himself up and pushed inside.
The feeling was a breathtaking full-ness, a deep, invasive ache that borders on pain. Kenny threw his head back, his mouth falling open in a soundless cry. Buck sank all the way in, hips flush against him, and stopped, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding still. Sweat dripped from his chin onto Kenny’s chest.
“Look at me,” Buck ground out.
Kenny forced his eyes open, meeting that fierce blue gaze. Buck’s expression was raw, utterly stripped of its usual easy confidence. What looked back was something feral, and scared, and so terribly vulnerable it made Kenny’s heart stutter.
Then Buck moved.
It wasn’t the frantic pace of the kitchen table. This was deeper, more measured, each withdrawal an agony of emptiness, each thrust a deliberate, soul-reaching possession. The couch groaned in time with Kenny’s moans. Buck’s hands pinned Kenny’s wrists to the cushions above his head, interlocking their fingers. The position made everything more intense, more exposing.
“You feel that?” Buck breathed, his forehead dropping to Kenny’s. “Every bit of me. You have all of it.”
Kenny could only nod, his world narrowed to the joining of their bodies, the crushing weight of Buck’s truth. He tilted his hips, taking him deeper, and Buck choked, his rhythm breaking for a glorious second. On screen, Shane was reaching his fictional peak, his cries mixing with the soundtrack. It was just noise. The only real sounds were their skin, their breath, the wet, driving slap of Buck’s hips against his ass.
Kenny came first, suddenly, a silent, seismic rupture that arched his spine off the couch. His internal muscles clamped down in vicious, rhythmic pulses, milking Buck relentlessly.
Buck cursed, a broken, beautiful string of syllables that might have been Kenny’s name mixed with prayers. He followed, his release pulsing hot and deep inside, his body seizing as he drove in one last, shuddering time. He collapsed, his weight a welcome anchor, his face buried in the crook of Kenny’s neck.
They laid there, wrecked and tangled, as the end credits of Episode 2 began to roll. The triumphant music felt grotesque, irrelevant. Buck’s breathing slowly evened out against Kenny’s skin. He didn’t pull away. He didn’t move at all.
The weight of him was solid, real, a grounding force after the freefall. Kenny kept his fingers threaded through Buck’s, their joined hands resting beside his head on the cushion. He could feel the frantic gallop of Buck’s heart begin to slow, syncing with his own. The fire popped, a soft, domestic sound. On the television, the end credits music gave way to the automated, upbeat preview for the next episode.
A laugh bubbled up in Kenny’s chest, faint and disbelieving. It escaped as a huff of air against Buck’s damp shoulder.
“Maybe we shld not watch Heated Rivalry anymore,” Kenny said, the words muffled by skin, each one punctuated by a giggle he couldn’t suppress.
He felt the vibration of Buck’s own laughter first, a deep rumble that shook through both of them. Buck lifted his head just enough to look down. His face was flushed, his eyes crinkled at the corners with a lightness that looked unfamiliar on him. “Yeah,” Buck agreed, his voice raspy with spent pleasure. “Probably a public health hazard.”
They untangled themselves, moving with the slow, careful motions of the thoroughly spent. Kenny’s body protested every step toward the bathroom, a catalog of delicious aches. This shower was different from the morning’s. It was slower, less about cleaning and more about tracing. Kenny soaped the broad plane of Buck’s back, his fingers learning the landscape of old scars and new scratches. Buck turned and returned the favor, washing the smears from Kenny’s stomach and chest with a tenderness that made Kenny’s throat tight.
They dried off with clean towels, the steam slowly clearing from the mirror. Buck pulled on a fresh pair of boxer briefs and leaned against the doorway, watching Kenny attempt to make his hair behave with his fingers. The cottage was quiet, just the drip of the showerhead and the distant sigh of the wind outside.
“So,” Buck said, his voice casual but his eyes intent. “Does the rule still apply now?”
Kenny looked at him in the mirror’s reflection. He saw the man from the kitchen table, the one who had looked at him with something like fear after wrecking him. He also saw the man who had just laughed with him, shoulders shaking. He turned around, leaning back against the sink.
“Yup!” Kenny said, popping the ‘p’, his expression cheerful and utterly firm.
A slow smile spread across Buck’s face. He pushed off the doorframe and closed the distance between them. He didn’t kiss him. He just stood there, the heat of him a welcome aura. “What if I wanted to bring you out for a movie?” Buck asked, his head tilting. “A real one. In a theater. With popcorn that tastes like fake butter and teenagers making out three rows back.”
Kenny’s eyes widened, a spark of pure, undiluted delight flashing in them. It was so normal. So stupidly, wonderfully normal. “Oh! Okays,” he said, nodding. “But when we come back,” he added, holding up a finger, “rule will still apply.”
Buck’s laughter filled the small bathroom. He kissed Kenny then, quick and sweet. “Deal.” He glanced at the misted window. “It’s only three. The late matinee is at four-fifteen.” He stepped back, jerking his head toward the bedroom. “Get dressed, bookstore boy. Your cultural education is lacking. We’re seeing whatever has the most explosions.”
He walked out, leaving Kenny grinning at the empty doorway. The throb between his legs was a persistent, happy reminder. The marks on his skin felt like promises. He looked at the pile of his own clothes from yesterday, then at the drawer Buck had left open, full of soft t-shirts. A slow, secret smile touched his lips as he made his choice.