Chapter 2: Succulents and Second Chances
The low, persistent thrum of a bassline from a Finnish death metal band Paul couldn’t name vibrated through the floorboards of the apartment above the bait shop. It was a good, grounding noise, a wall of sound that kept the silence of the harbor at bay. Sunlight, weak and pale as watered-down milk, strained through the single grimy window, landing in a distorted rectangle on the peeling linoleum. It illuminated dust motes dancing above Paul’s succulent garden, a ragged collection of fat green rosettes and spiky alien shapes crammed onto the windowsill. Each one was a tiny, stubborn victory.
Paul took a sip of his coffee, the cheap, bitter brew almost a comfort in its predictability. He was a study in comfortable disarray. An ancient, faded Black Sabbath t-shirt, so large it slipped off one shoulder, draped his slender frame. Beneath it, he wore a pair of soft, blush-pink panties and, because the morning chill seeped up from the water, long pink stockings that hugged his calves. His feet were bare on the cool floor. He felt, for the first time in months, maybe years, pleasantly unselfconscious in his own skin. Here, in this smelly, sagging-floored sanctuary, he could be this.
He was rearranging the living room—a generous term for the space that held a second-hand couch, a rickety coffee table, and Riley’s gaming console tethered to a small TV by a nest of cables. Paul was trying to impose order, stacking Riley’s psychology textbooks into a neater pile, aligning the mugs on the kitchenette counter. It was a domestic ritual, a way of saying we live here, we stay.
The bedroom door creaked open.
Riley emerged, a silhouette against the darker room. He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of low-slung grey sweatpants. His dark hair was a chaotic mess from sleep, his stubble shadowing his jaw. He blinked, his sharp-featured face softening for a moment in the dull light as he took in the scene: the music, the organized chaos, Paul.
Paul, glowing in his own quiet way, the line of his shoulder exposed, the way the huge shirt hinted at the soft curve of his breast before falling away. The pink stockings. The absolute, unguarded comfort of him.
Riley didn’t speak. He never did in these first moments of the day. Words were too sharp, too likely to cut the fragile peace. He padded across the floor, his movements silent, a remnant of what he was. Paul, humming softly along to a guitar riff, didn’t hear him until Riley was directly behind him.
Warmth radiated from Riley’s bare chest before it even touched Paul’s back. Then it did, solid and real. Riley pressed himself flush against Paul, his chin hooking over Paul’s shoulder. His hands, still sleep-warm, found the hem of the Sabbath shirt and slid underneath without hesitation, palms flat against the cool skin of Paul’s abdomen.
Paul stilled, his breath catching. He set his coffee mug down with a soft clink.
Riley’s hands moved upward, slow and deliberate, mapping the familiar territory of Paul’s ribs, the dip of his waist, until they rose to cup the full, soft weight of his breasts. His thumbs swept over Paul’s nipples, already peaked from the cool air and the sudden attention.
A soft, punched-out sigh escaped Paul’s lips. He let his head fall back against Riley’ s shoulder, exposing the line of his throat.
“You’re so beautiful like this,” Riley breathed, the words a low rumble vibrating through Paul’s back and into his very bones. His lips brushed the sensitive skin just below Paul’s ear.“A complete mess. My mess.”
The possessiveness in the words, once a source of chafing tension, now sent a shiver of pure warmth through Paul. It wasn’t a cage. It was a claim of sanctuary. After the mob, after the stones and the shouted slurs, someone wanting him, claiming him, was a miracle.
“I’m yours,” Paul whispered. The words slipped out, unbidden and utterly true. He felt Riley freeze for a fraction of a second, the hands on his breasts stilling. Then Riley’s grip tightened, just shy of painful. A possessive, wordless sound growled from his chest, and he turned his head, sealing his mouth over the curve where Paul’s neck met his shoulder in a kiss that was more promise than passion.
Paul whimpered. It was a small, needy sound. He arched his back, pressing himself more firmly into Riley’s hands, into the hard, hot length of him he could feel through the sweatpants. Riley was hard. The knowledge pooled like liquid heat low in Paul’s belly. He could feel his own dampness seeping into the thin cotton of his panties. The air thickened, charged with everything they weren’t saying.
Riley broke the kiss, his breathing ragged against Paul’ tasksin. He dragged his hands down, smoothing them over Paul’s hips, then slowly withdrew them from under the shirt. He rested his forehead between Paul’s shoulder blades for a long moment, as if gathering himself.
When he spoke, his voice had shifted, the raw hunger banked behind his trademark dark humor. “If you keep organizing my shit, people are gonna think you’re my live-in maid. Or worse, my girlfriend.” He gave Paul’s hip a light pinch through the shirt.
Paul laughed, a breathless, relieved sound. The tension fractured, reshaping itself into their familiar, careful dance. He leaned forward, picking up his coffee mug again just to have something to do with his hands. “Someone has to impose civilization. Your filing system is ‘pile’. Your idea of interior design is ‘the floor is a shelf’.”
“It’s a system,” Riley protested, moving past him to the tiny kitchenette. He opened the fridge, his back to Paul, giving them both a moment. Paul watched the play of muscles under pale skin, the faint silvery scars that were souvenirs from a life before blood. “A very efficient one. I know exactly which pile has the takeout menus from the place that definitely doesn’t use rat meat.”
“Comforting,” Paul said, taking another sip. He was intensely aware of the wetness between his legs, the phantom pressure of Riley’s hands on his breasts. They would ignore it. They had to.It was the rule.
Riley emerged with a carton of orange juice and drank directly from it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes, clearer now, scanning Paul. “Big plans today? Gonna storm the citadel of clutter? Defeat the dread dragon Dust Bunny?”
“Thought I might,” Paul said, leaning against the counter. The shirt slipped further off his shoulder. He saw Riley’s gaze track the movement, lingering. “And maybe re-pot the echeveria. It’s getting crowded. Then… I don’t know. Read. There’s a new Banks on the stack.”
“Thrilling,” Riley deadpanned, but there was no malice in it. He rummaged in a cabinet and pulled out a box of sugary cereal, the kind with cartoon mascots and colors that didn’t exist in nature. He shook some into a bowl. “I’ve got classes ‘til four. Psychopharmacology. Because nothing says ‘understanding the human mind’ like memorizing which chemical bludgeon to use on it.”
“You love it,” Paul said softly.
Riley paused, spoon hovering over the brightly colored shapes. “It’s something to do,” he said, but it was a deflection, and they both knew it. Riley studied the monstrous to understand the monster he’d been, the one that sometimes still whispered in his dreams. He sought the blueprints of the mind to prove his own was still his own.
He ate his cereal standing up, looking out the window at the gray slice of harbor. Paul tidied around him, their movements falling into a quiet, syncopated rhythm. The metal album ended, leaving a sudden, ringing quiet filled only with the crunch of cereal and the tap of Paul arranging books.
“You should get dressed,” Paul finally said, glancing at the clock. “You’ll be late.”
“Yeah.” Riley didn’t move. He put his bowl in the sink, then turned, leaning against the counter. His eyes were dark, intense. “Paul.”
“Hmm?”
“Tonight.After class. I was thinking… we could get that stupidly expensive chocolate cake from the bakery on Elm. The one with the raspberry goo in the middle.”
Paul’s heart did a slow, clumsy roll. Riley loved desserts with a focus that bordered on the obsessive. It was a leftover craving, he said, from when his body had burned through calories like a furnace. Offering to share a specific, coveted cake was, for Riley, a form of poetry. It was also an apology, a peace offering for the raw, unspoken thing that had crackled between them this morning.
“The one you call ‘an affront to decent nutrition but a triumph of the human spirit’?” Paul asked, a smile tugging at his lips.
“That’s the one.” Riley pushed off the counter and walked over to him. He didn’t touch him, just stood close, invading his space in that way he had. “We could eat it right out of the box. No plates. Savages.”
“Sounds perfect,” Paul whispered.
Riley nodded, satisfied. He finally turned and walked back toward the bedroom to get ready. At the doorway, he stopped, half-turning. “And Paul?”
“Yeah?”
“Wear the stockings. The pink ones.”
Then he was gone, shutting the door behind him. Paul stood in the middle of their shabby living room, his face hot, a dizzying cocktail of affection and desire swirling in his chest. He was pathetically, hopelessly in love with a wiry, sharp-tongued vampire who quoted neurochemistry and saved cake like a sacrament. And Riley, who feared his own capacity for ruin, was pathetically, hopelessly in love with a former priest who wore metal band shirts and gardened and trusted him enough to fall apart in his arms.
The rest of the day passed in a soft, quiet haze. Paul repotted the echeveria, his fingers dark with soil. He read a chapter of his book, losing himself in far-future politics. He changed the music to something softer, an atmospheric doom album that felt like a slow, beautiful descent. He did not change his clothes. The oversized shirt, the pink panties, the stockings—they were his armor of normalcy now.
When the key turned in the lock just after five, Paul’s pulse fluttered. He was on the couch, book open on his lap.
Riley came in, a gust of cool, outside air clinging to his leather jacket. He dropped his backpack by the door with a thud. In his other hand was a pristine white bakery box, tied with string. His eyes found Paul immediately, cataloging him, ensuring he was exactly as he’d been left. Safe.Theirs.
“Traffic was a bitch,” Riley announced, shrugging off his jacket. “Some idiot trying to parallel park a yacht. I almost got out to do it for him. Would’ve been faster.” He brought the box over to the coffee table and knelt, undoing the string with a reverence the gesture didn’t usually command.
The cake, when revealed, was a decadent monstrosity of dark chocolate, glittering glaze, and a ruby-red raspberry core. Riley produced two forks from his backpack. “Told you.No plates. We’re animals.”
He sat on the floor, leaning back against the couch near Paul’s legs. Paul slid down to join him, sitting cross-legged beside him. Their shoulders touched.
Riley dug his fork in, carving out a huge chunk that contained all the layers. He held it out, not to his own mouth, but to Paul’s. “First bite’s yours.”
Paul’s breath hitched. He leaned forward and took the offering, his lips closing around the fork. Flavors exploded—rich, bitter chocolate, sweet-tart raspberry, the crush of delicate cake. It was absurdly good. He moaned, closing his eyes. “Oh, that’s…”
When he opened them, Riley was staring at him, his expression unreadable. Then Riley looked away, scooping up his own massive bite. “Told you,” he said around the mouthful.“Human spirit. Triumph.”
They ate in companionable silence, passing the box between them, forks clinking. The only sounds were their chewing, the distant cry of gulls, and the slow, fading hum of the day. The cake was demolished with brutal efficiency.
Riley leaned his head back against the couch cushion, staring at the water-stained ceiling. “Best five-thirty-seven dollars I ever spent.”
“Riley! That’s—”
“Worth every cent,” he interrupted, turning his head to look at Paul. There was chocolate at the corner of his mouth. Without thinking, Paul reached out and brushed it away with his thumb. Riley caught his wrist, holding it there, his lips brushing Paul’s thumb pad. The air tightened again, sweet and heavy with sugar and want.
Riley’s phone buzzed loudly on the table, shattering the moment. He let go of Paul’s wrist with a grimace, grabbing it. “Hassan,” he said, looking at the screen. “Wants to know if we want to get our collective asses kicked in Starforge tonight.”
It was their routine. Hassan and Erin, their only real friends, the ones who’d been on the dock with the skiff. Online gaming was their safe socializing. No one could see them, no one asked questions.
“Sure,” Paul said, his voice a little unsteady. He started gathering the wreckage of the cake box.
Later, with the apartment dark save for the glow of the TV screen, Paul sat curled at one end of the couch, a controller in his hands. He wore the same clothes, now rumpled and soft. Riley stretched out along the rest of the couch, his head in Paul’s lap. It had happened gradually, over weeks. First sitting apart, then side-by-side, then this. Riley’s dark hair was a stark contrast against the faded black of Paul’s shirt.
“Move left, you idiot!” Riley barked at the screen, though his voice lacked real heat. “Paul, revive him. He’s gonna get us all nuked.”
“I’m trying, he’s running away from me!” Paul laughed, his fingers deft on the buttons. On screen, his healer avatar chased Hassan’s fleeing warrior.
Erin’s voice crackled through the headset. “Hassan, I swear to God, if you pull that mob again, I’m divorcing you.”
“You can’t divorce me, we’re not married in this realm!” Hassan shot back.
Riley snorted. “Legalistic bullshit. She’ll dump your corpse in a ditch.”
Paul smiled, looking down. Riley’s face was lit by the screen’s glow, his sharp features relaxed in concentration. He was beautiful like this, unguarded and focused on something that wasn’t survival or trauma. Paul’s free hand drifted from the controller and came to rest lightly in Riley’s hair, his fingers threading through the short strands. Riley didn’t flinch. He leaned into the touch, a soft, almost imperceptible sigh escaping him.
The game session lasted for hours, filled with trash-talk, tactical arguments, and shared victories. It was normal. It was everything Paul had once thought he’d never have again.
When they finally signed off, the apartment was deeply quiet. The harbor outside was still. Riley didn’t move from Paul’s lap. He lay there, staring at the now-dark TV screen.
“Paul,” he said quietly.
“Yeah?”
“You know I… I don’t do this. The… domestic shit.The cake. The…” He gestured vaguely, unable to name the thing where he lay with his head in someone’s lap, content.
“I know,” Paul said softly.
“It’s not because I don’t…” Riley trailed off, the words choking him. He turned his face inward, pressing his cheek against Paul’s thigh, hiding. His voice was muffled. “I just can’t… fuck it up. I fuck everything up.”
Paul’s heart ached, a sharp, sweet pain. He kept stroking Riley’s hair. “You haven’t.You saved me. You save me every day.”
“That’s different,” Riley argued into the fabric of Paul’s shirt. “That’s… protection. That’s instinct. This is…”
“This is what comes after,” Paul whispered. “When you don’t have to save me anymore. When we just are.”
Riley was silent for a long time. Then, with a sudden, decisive movement, he sat up. He turned, kneeling on the couch, facing Paul. In the dim light, his eyes were pools of shadow. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and pushed the oversized shirt off Paul’s shoulder again, baring his skin. His fingers traced the line of Paul’s collarbone, then drifted down, over the soft swell of his breast concealed by the shirt.
“I want…” Riley started, then stopped, his jaw tightening.
“I know,” Paul breathed. “Me too.”
They hovered there, on the precipice. The want was a physical thing in the space between them, humid and urgent. Paul could see the hard line of Riley’s erection straining against his sweatpants. He knew his own panties were soaked.
Riley’s hand fisted in the shirt fabric, not pushing it away, just holding on. His forehead dropped to Paul’s shoulder. “We can’t,” he gritted out. “Not yet. I’ll… I’ll ruin it.”
It wasn’t a rejection. It was a fearful, desperate preservation. Paul understood. He lifted his hand and cupped the back of Riley’s head, holding him there. “Okay,” he said, his voice thick. “It’s okay.”
They stayed like that until their breathing evened out, until the urgent, aching need cooled into a simmering ember. Finally, Riley pulled back. He didn’t look at Paul. He just stood, offering a hand.
Paul took it, letting Riley pull him to his feet. Wordlessly, they moved through the dark to the bedroom and the narrow, sagging bed. They shed their outer layers—Riley his sweatpants, Paul his stockings—and slid under the covers in their underwear. Riley immediately turned, fitting himself against Paul’s back, his arm wrapping around Paul’s waist, his hand finding its familiar, grounding place over Paul’s heart.
“The cake was good,” Riley whispered into the nape of Paul’s neck.
“The best,” Paul agreed, his eyes closing.
He felt Riley’s lips curve into a smile against his skin. “Told you. Now go to sleep. Your fucking plants need you rested tomorrow.”
Paul smiled in the dark, his hand coming up to cover Riley’ s where it rested on his chest. They were pathetic. They were in love. And for now, in the quiet dark with the smell of chocolate and harbor salt lingering in the air, that was enough.