Chapter 111: Chapter 111
He’s got a crisis because someone checked out an ancient grimoire and didn’t return it.” Tom’s voice was warm, animated, his hands shaping the air as they walked the six blocks to The Nook. Jonah listened, the thrumming in his chest settling into a steadier, warmer beat. Tom’s enthusiasm was a tangible thing, a physical field he stepped into willingly. The cafe was a cramped, book-lined cave smelling of burnt coffee and mildew. They claimed a corner table sticky with ancient board game residue, ordered terrible tea, and attempted to play a game with half the pieces missing. They talked for two hours. About books, about the ominous cloud of university applications, about their families. Tom’s mum, Donna, was a cardiac nurse with a laugh that could shake windows. His dad, he mentioned with a slight tightening around his eyes, lived in Aberdeen now.
“He’s fine. Just… far.” Tom’s thumb traced a crack in the table’s veneer. “He said it was a promotion.”
Jonah recognized the shape of that absence. “My biological dad’s… also far. In the ‘incarcerated’ sense of the word.” He’d never said it so plainly before. The words hung there, not fragile, but just present.
Tom didn’t flinch. He nodded, a slow, accepting dip of his chin. “Makes our choices more ours, I guess.” He looked up, his blue eyes clear. “Your dads sound incredible.”
“They are.” Jonah smiled. “They’re also a mess. Cassian still sometimes forgets to buy toilet paper. Felix has entire, silent meltdowns over font choices.”
Tom laughed, the sound deep and unguarded. “I’d like to meet them. The mess part sounds relatable.” The invitation, implicit and weighted, landed between them.
“They’d like to meet you,” Jonah said, and meant it.
Weeks bled into a comfortable rhythm. Tuesdays after school were for The Nook, Fridays were for winding walks that sometimes ended with Tom pressed against the graffiti-tagged wall of the community centre bike shed, kissing Jonah until his lips were swollen and his mind blank. Jonah loved the weight of him, the solid, real feel of Tom’s body against his own. They learned each other’s textures in stolen moments: the softness of Tom’s inner thighs, the surprising strength in his broad hands, the way he tasted of peppermint tea and something indefinably sweet.
The first official meeting with parents was at Jonah’s flat. Tom arrived carrying a slightly lopsided Victoria sponge his mum had helped him bake. He wore a clean blue button-down that strained at the buttons over his chest. Jonah saw Felix take in Tom’s nervous smile, the careful way he wiped his shoes. Cassian looked him over once, a swift, assessing glance, and then grinned, a rare, full thing that cracked his weathered face open. “Heard you appreciate a good burger,” Cassian said, shaking Tom’s hand with a grip that made Tom wince. “That’s the main thing.”
Over the meal, Tom’s initial stiffness melted under Felix’s gentle questions about his art and Cassian’s deadpan stories of welding disasters. When Tom mentioned his dad, the distance, Cassian just nodded. “Parenting’s a choice you make every day. Sounds like he took a day off. Permanently.” The statement wasn’t cruel, just factual, and Jonah saw Tom absorb it, a slight unclenching in his shoulders.
A fortnight later, they sat in Donna Mulligan’s pristine, beige living room. She was a compact, powerful woman with Tom’s eyes and a gaze that missed nothing. She served strong tea in delicate china. “So,” she said, after the pleasantries were exhausted. “Jonah. Tell me about your family.”
Jonah knew this was the test. He kept his voice even. “I live with my dads, Felix and Cassian. Cassian’s a welding inspector for the gas company. Felix is an architectural technician. They’ve been together for… a long time. They took me in four years ago.”
Donna’s expression was inscrutable. She took a slow sip of tea. “And your birth parents?”
“My mother died when I was eight. Overdose.” The word felt clinical on his tongue. “My father’s in prison. Has been since I was ten.”
The room was very quiet. Tom was holding his breath beside him on the sofa. Donna set her cup down on its saucer with a precise click. She looked at Jonah, her gaze direct and unwavering. “You’ve had a hard road.”
“I have a good home now,” he said, meeting her eyes.
A slow smile transformed her face, making her look suddenly, completely like Tom. “Good.” She reached over and patted his knee, her hand warm and firm. “Anyone who looks at my son the way you do better have a good home.” The tension shattered. She launched into a story about Tom as a chubby toddler trying to eat a library book, and the evening unfolded into something warm and easy.
After that, doors swung open. Tom became a fixture, sharing Sunday dinners, helping Cassian hold a beam steady in the makeshift workshop, listening patiently to Felix’s rants about sustainable urban design. The two of them carved out a world within the world of the flat. Up in Jonah’s room, with the door locked and music playing, they explored each other with a hungry, patient intensity.
One rainy afternoon, with the grey light washing over them, Jonah finally got to see all of Tom. They were on Jonah’s bed, kissing deep and slow, their hands roaming under shirts. “Can I?” Jonah whispered against Tom’s mouth, fingers at the waistband of his jeans.
“God, yes,” Tom breathed, arching up.
Jonah undressed him slowly, peeling away the layers to reveal the pale, magnificent expanse of him. Tom’s chest was broad, his stomach a beautiful, rounded swell that Jonah immediately laid his head upon, hearing the strong, rapid heartbeat within. His thighs were thick, dusted with fine brown hair, and between them, his cock lay heavy and full against his belly. He was flawless. Jonah kissed his way down that soft stomach, inhaling his musky, clean scent.
“I want to taste you,” Jonah said, his voice rough.
Tom’s hands fisted in the duvet. “Please.”
Jonah took him into his mouth, slowly, savoring the smooth, hot weight of him. He loved the way Tom’s body tensed, the low, broken moan that echoed above him. He loved the taste, salty and intimate. He worked him with his mouth, one hand cupping Tom’s heavy balls, the other stroking the base of his shaft. Tom’s hips began to move in shallow, helpless thrusts. “Jonah… I’m gonna… fuck…”
Jonah sucked harder, taking him deep, and felt Tom’s cock jerk on his tongue. The hot, bitter taste of Tom’s release flooded his mouth, and he swallowed, milking him through the last pulses until Tom collapsed, boneless and shuddering.
After, as they lay tangled, Tom’s hand wandered down Jonah’s body. “Your turn,” he murmured, his touch growing bolder. He pushed Jonah onto his back and, with a look of fierce determination, moved down the bed. He took Jonah’s cock into his mouth without hesitation. He wasn’t as practiced, but his enthusiasm, the wet, hot suction, the scrape of his teeth, the way he looked up, his blue eyes watering slightly, drove Jonah wild. When Jonah came, shouting a raw, shattered version of Tom’s name, Tom took it all, swallowing with a grimace and a triumphant smile.
They lay in the damp, tangled sheets, the rain pattering against the window. “University applications are due next week,” Tom said, his head on Jonah’s chest.
A cold dread, previously kept at bay, settled in Jonah’s gut. Tom was applying to study illustration in Edinburgh, a dream he’d spoken of for years. Jonah’s own path was less clear, a scattering of potential courses in design and history at local institutions. The thought of next September, of this room without Tom in it, felt like a physical amputation.
“I know,” Jonah said quietly.
Tom was silent for a long moment. His finger traced a pattern on Jonah’s soft stomach. “I was looking at the prospectus for the University of the Northumbria,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. “They have a really good joint honours program. Illustration and Design History.”
Jonah’s heart stuttered. He knew that program. He’d dismissed it as being too far, a silly fantasy. “That’s… that’s a good program.”
Tom lifted his head, meeting Jonah’s eyes. His own were serious, wide open. “We could both apply. For the same place.” He said it like a question, like a hope laid bare on the bed between them.
The implications crashed over Jonah—the shared adventure, the terror of putting all their eggs in one basket, the sheer, audacious hope of it. He thought of Cassian and Felix, their improbable, welded-together life. He thought of Tom’s weight on him, his laughter in the kitchen, the future they whispered about in the dark.
“Yeah,” Jonah said, his throat tight. He pulled Tom closer, kissing his forehead, his cheeks, his mouth. “Let’s do it. Let’s apply together.”
The following months were a blur of personal statements, portfolio assembly, and a shared, breathless anxiety. They worked side-by-side at the kitchen table, Felix proofreading, Cassian supplying endless cups of terrible, strong coffee. The day the acceptance emails arrived, they were at Tom’s house. They opened their laptops simultaneously, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator.
Jonah’s screen loaded first. Offer of Admission. His breath froze. He looked over. Tom was staring at his own screen, his hand clamped over his mouth, his eyes wide and shining. He turned his laptop. The same heading. The same university. The same program.
A noise escaped Tom, a sob-laugh of pure disbelief. Jonah launched himself across the space between their chairs, tackling Tom in a hug that sent them both sprawling onto the beige carpet. They clung to each other, laughing and crying, a tangled heap of relief and joy and suddenly vast, uncharted future.
“We’re going,” Jonah gasped into Tom’s shoulder. “We’re actually going.”
Later, at Jonah’s flat, they celebrated with champagne Felix had inexplicably produced. Cassian raised a glass, his eyes suspiciously bright. “To not having to say goodbye,” he said, his voice gruff.
That night, in Jonah’s room, their lovemaking was different. It was a slow, reverent claiming of the promised future. They took their time, exploring every inch as if memorizing a map they would now get to navigate together. When Jonah finally pushed into Tom, it was with a deep, sure stroke that made them both cry out. They moved together in a rhythm that felt less like hunger and more like a vow, a physical seal on the contract they’d just signed with the world.
After, spent and slick with sweat, Tom traced the line of Jonah’s jaw. “We’ll need a flat,” he whispered. “Somewhere with good light.”
Jonah smiled into the dark, the shape of their next chapter beginning to form, solid and real as the body beside him. “We’ll find one,” he said.
The Nook was a dim cave smelling of burnt coffee and old paper. They sat in a sticky vinyl booth, a chessboard between them, but they didn't play. Jonah listened, rapt, as Tom’s hands sketched invisible dragons in the air, his voice growing more animated. He watched the way Tom’s full lips moved, the slight wobble of his soft chin when he laughed. Their knees bumped under the small table, and neither moved away. The contact sent a simple, electric current straight up Jonah’s spine.
“So the dragon has to track this guy down,” Tom concluded, finally taking a sip of his tepid latte. A foam mustache clung to his upper lip. “But the guy’s just a baker who thought it was a fancy cookbook. It’s about… I don’t know, the beauty of mundane mistakes, I guess.”
“That’s brilliant,” Jonah said, and he meant it. He wasn’t just talking about the plot.
Tom wiped his mouth, leaving a pink smear on his napkin. His blue eyes, behind his smudged glasses, were bright and focused entirely on Jonah. “What about you? What do you draw?”
Jonah’s stomach tightened. His sketchbook was a private place, full of sharp angles and shadowed cityscapes he’d never shown anyone. He pulled it from his bag anyway, the spiral binding cool in his hands. “It’s not dragons.”
“Show me.” Tom’s voice was gentle, an invitation, not a demand.
Slowly, Jonah turned the pages. Industrial landscapes. The welded joints of a fire escape. The specific way light fell through their kitchen window onto Cassian’s old leather jacket. It was a chronicle of his quiet life. Tom leaned in, his shoulder now firmly pressed against Jonah’s. He smelled like clean cotton and the faint, powdery scent of his deodorant. His finger, blunt and ink-stained, hovered over a drawing of the flat’s worn sofa.
“You see texture,” Tom murmured. “You see the history in things. That’s… that’s way better than dragons.”
Their faces were inches apart. The chatter of the cafe, the hiss of the espresso machine, it all dissolved into a muffled hum. Jonah could see the pale, downy hairs on Tom’s cheek. He could see the faint freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose like distant constellations. Time stretched, became syrup-thick.
Jonah kissed him.
It wasn’t a question. It was an alignment. Their mouths met, warm and a little clumsy. Tom made a small, surprised sound that vibrated against Jonah’s lips, and then he was kissing him back. His hand came up, fingers carding into the thick curls at the nape of Jonah’s neck, pulling him closer. The kiss tasted of cheap coffee and possibility. It was soft, then deeper, wetter. Jonah’s hand found the solid plane of Tom’s back under his hoodie, feeling the heat of his body through the thin t-shirt.
They broke apart, breathing hard. A group of freshmen at the next booth were snickering. Jonah didn’t care. Tom’s cheeks were flushed a deep, glorious crimson, his lips slick and parted. “Wow,” he whispered.
“Yeah,” Jonah breathed. His whole body was singing.
They were inseparable after that. The final months of high school bled away in a golden blur of secret touches in library stacks, of shared lunches where their knees remained welded together under the table, of long, meandering walks where their fingers finally laced, their palms sweaty and sure. Tom introduced Jonah to his mum, Linda, a weary, kind-eyed nurse who hugged Jonah tightly and whispered, “You look at him right. Thank you for that.” Felix and Cassian had Tom over for a famously awkward Sunday dinner where Cassian grilled sausages into charcoal and Felix talked too much about architectural theory until Jonah kicked him under the table.
The offer letters arrived on the same day. The same mid-tier state university, two hours north, had accepted them both. Tom for English Literature, Jonah for Fine Art. It wasn’t a planned conspiracy; their grades and portfolios had simply drifted to the same practical shore. The decision, when they made it sitting on the floor of Jonah’s room, was silent. They just looked at each other, and the future, vast and terrifying, snapped into a single, shared trajectory.
“We should get a flat,” Tom said, his voice quiet with the weight of it. “Together.”
Jonah just nodded, his throat too tight for words. He leaned over and kissed him, a slow, deep kiss that tasted of the same fearful hope.
Finding the flat was a comedy of errors involving a sleazy landlord named Gary and a converted upstairs space above a dusty comic book shop. It was one bedroom, with a bathroom that constantly hummed from faulty plumbing and a kitchenette boasting a stove with two working burners. The walls were thin. It was perfect. They moved in on a sweaty September Saturday, their combined belongings looking meager and brave in the empty space. Felix and Cassian helped, Cassian fixing the wobble in the bedroom door with a muttered curse and a folded matchbook, Felix stocking the fridge with basics and leaving a bottle of expensive whiskey on the counter with a note: ‘For a real emergency. Not a Tuesday.’
That first evening, they ordered pizza. They sat on the bare floor, cardboard box between them, surrounded by unopened suitcases. The silence was different now. It was theirs. The air smelled of pepperoni and new paint and their own uncharted future.
“We should go out,” Tom said, picking the olives off his slice. “Like, to celebrate. See what’s happening.”
Jonah, who was perfectly content to stay in this empty box forever, just them, nodded. “Okay. Where?”
Tom’s eyes lit up. “There’s a thing. A party. Some of the guys from my Composition class were talking about it. It’s at the Beta Psi house.”
A fraternity. The words carried a cinematic weight of unknown rituals and social peril. Jonah had never been to a party, not a real one. The only alcohol he’d ever tasted was a sip of Cassian’s beer at sixteen, which he’d hated. He looked at Tom’s eager, round face, at the way his soft body leaned forward with anticipation. “Yeah,” Jonah heard himself say. “Let’s do it.”
They changed clothes twice. Jonah settled on a tight black henley that stretched across his chest and accentuated the soft swell of his belly. Tom wore a red plaid shirt over a grey t-shirt, the layers doing little to conceal his broad, solid frame. They looked like themselves, just amplified. More visible.
The Beta Psi house was a thunderous monster of vinyl siding and blaring bass. Light pulsed from its windows, staining the dark lawn a sickly orange. A crowd spilled onto the porch, clutching red plastic cups, their laughter sharp and giddy. The smell hit them first: spilled beer, sickly-sweet cheap candy vapor, sweat, and underneath it all, the sour tang of anxiety.
A guy with a carefully trimmed beard took one look at them, his eyes dragging over their bodies without subtlety. “Five bucks. Cups are in the kitchen.”
They paid, crossing the threshold into a wall of noise and heat. Bodies pressed everywhere. In the kitchen, a kid was pouring neon-green liquid from a huge plastic jug into a line of cups. “Jungle Juice!” he shouted over the music. “One and done, fellas!”
Tom took two cups, handing one to Jonah. The liquid was warm and smelled violently of fruit and gasoline. Jonah looked at Tom. Tom’s face was a mask of determined excitement, but his eyes held a flicker of the same primal fear Jonah felt. This was the rite. They clinked cups, a dull plastic thock.
“To the flat,” Tom said.
“To us,” Jonah replied.They drank.
It was revolting. Sugar and acid and an unmistakable chemical burn that clawed its way down Jonah’s throat and settled in his stomach like a lit fuse. He coughed, his eyes watering. Tom grimaced, but took another gulp. “It gets better!” he shouted, though he didn’t sound convinced.
They moved deeper into the house, a current of strangers carrying them from room to room. The bass was a physical thing, vibrating in their teeth. Someone shoved another cup into Jonah’s hand. He drank it because it was there. The edges of the room began to soften. The fear unclenched its fist. Tom’s face, when Jonah found it in the crowd, seemed to glow. He was laughing at something a stranger said, his head thrown back, the soft column of his throat exposed.
“You’re beautiful,” Jonah slurred into his ear, the words surprising him as they left his mouth.
Tom turned, his eyes glassy and wide. He grabbed Jonah’s face and kissed him, hard and wet and public, right there in the middle of the writhing living room. Someone whooped. The kiss tasted of fake lime and promise. A warm, buzzing courage flooded Jonah’s veins. He pulled Tom closer, his hands sliding down to cup the generous, perfect curve of Tom’s ass through his jeans, squeezing possessively.
Time became slippery, a series of vivid, disconnected snapshots. Another cup. A game with a ping pong ball that they lost badly. Tom’s warm weight leaning against him as they stumbled into a dark, quieter hallway lined with closed doors. The world tilted on a gentle axis. Jonah’s head was full of cotton wool and sparks.
“I’m so fucked up,” Tom giggled, his breath hot against Jonah’s neck.
“Me too.” It was glorious.
Jonah pushed open a door at the end of the hall. It was a half-bathroom, littered with empty rolls of toilet paper. He locked the door behind them. The noise was muffled here, replaced by the frantic thump of their own heartbeats. The small space smelled of piss and bleach. Tom leaned back against the sink, his plaid shirt hanging open. The soft, pale swell of his stomach above his belt was illuminated by a single bare bulb.
“Come here,” Tom said, his voice thick.
Jonah staggered forward, his body clumsy and eager. He crowded Tom against the sink, his hands pushing the plaid shirt off his shoulders. He yanked Tom’s grey t-shirt up, revealing the full, beautiful expanse of his torso. Tom’s chest was smooth, his nipples small and pink. His stomach was a lovely, pronounced curve, a soft hillock of flesh that Jonah worshipped with his hands and then his mouth, kissing and sucking the warm skin, biting gently at the yielding flesh.
“Fuck, Jonah,” Tom moaned, his fingers tangling in Jonah’s curls.
Drunk, fearless, Jonah dropped to his knees on the dirty linoleum. He fumbled with Tom’s belt buckle, his fingers thick and uncoordinated. He got the button fly of Tom’s jeans open, pulling them and his boxers down to his thighs in one rough motion. Tom’s cock sprang free, thick and hard, curving up against his soft belly. The scent of him, musky and intimate, cut through the chemical stink of the room.
Without hesitation, Jonah took him into his mouth. He had never done this before. The reality was overwhelming: the heat, the salty-slick taste of pre-come, the heavy weight on his tongue. He gagged, pulled off, spit stringing from his lips, then dove back on, desperate to please, to consume. He bobbed his head, his own drunkenness making the rhythm sloppy and frantic.
“Oh god, oh fuck,” Tom chanted, his hips stuttering. He grabbed the back of Jonah’s head, not guiding, just holding on. “Your mouth, shit, your fucking mouth…”
Jonah hollowed his cheeks, sucking hard, his tongue swiping along the thick vein underneath. The burn in his throat mingled with the alcohol burn in his gut. It was messy, wet, obscene. Tom’s thighs began to tremble. His breath hitched in sharp, ragged gasps.
“I’m gonna come,” Tom warned, his voice a strained rasp. “Jonah, I’m—”
Jonah didn’t pull away. He sucked harder, taking him deeper, until the head bumped the back of his throat. Tom cried out, a raw, broken sound, and his hips bucked forward. Hot, bitter pulses flooded Jonah’s mouth. He swallowed convulsively, some of it spilling from the corners of his lips, dripping onto his chin and the floor. He stayed there, kneeling, until Tom softened in his mouth, until Tom’s hands gently pulled him up.
They stared at each other, shell-shocked. Jonah wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Tom’s eyes were black with desire and intoxication. He grabbed Jonah, kissing him deeply, tasting himself on Jonah’s tongue.
“Your turn,” Tom slurred, his hands fumbling for Jonah’s belt.
They never made it. The room spun violently. Jonah’s stomach, a cauldron of sugar and spirits and adrenaline, revolted. A sour heat rushed up his esophagus. He shoved Tom back and lunged for the toilet, barely lifting the lid before he vomited explosively. The jungle juice came up in a burning, acidic torrent, speckled with undigested pizza. He heaved until he was empty, until he was just dry, painful convulsions, tears streaming down his face.
Tom, leaning against the door, watched with a drunk’s detached fascination. Then his own face paled. “Oh no.”
He pushed Jonah aside and retched into the sink, his broad shoulders heaving. Nothing came up but clear, sticky bile. They took turns, a pathetic, synchronized performance of illness. When it was over, they slid down the wall to sit on the cold floor, their backs against the cabinet, their pants still open. The party raged on beyond the door.
“We should go home,” Jonah whispered, his mouth tasting of death.
Somehow, they got their clothes in order. They stumbled out of the bathroom, through the still-thrashing house, and into the cool night air. The walk back to the flat was a silent, weaving nightmare. Every swaying step sent a fresh wave of nausea through Jonah. Tom stumbled into a hedge and threw up again, a pathetic, choking sound.
They found their door. Jonah’s hands shook too badly to get the key in the lock. Tom took it from him, his own fingers clumsy, and finally managed. They fell into their new home, the door slamming shut behind them, sealing them in the dark.
The silence was a physical shock after the party’s roar. Then Tom groaned, a deep, miserable sound, and lurched for the kitchen sink. He turned the tap on and vomited a thin stream of water and bile into the stainless steel basin. The sound was horrible, wet and desperate. Jonah stood frozen in the middle of the room, the spinning in his head accelerating. The smell of the pizza box, still on the floor, suddenly seemed overpowering, greasy and nauseating.
His own stomach clenched, a final, violent rebellion. He didn’t make it to the bathroom. He stumbled towards the plastic trash bin by the door, dropped to his knees, and retched into it. It was mostly dry heaves now, his whole body seizing with the effort, his abs cramping painfully. He tasted blood, his throat raw and torn.
When it was over, he stayed there, forehead resting on the cool plastic rim of the bin, sweat chilling on his skin. Across the room, Tom was slumped against the kitchen cabinets, his face pale and waxy in the moonlight from the window. A string of drool and spit connected his lip to the front of his shirt. He looked utterly ruined.
“I’ve never…” Tom began, then stopped, swallowing with obvious difficulty. “I’ve never been drunk before.”
“Me neither,” Jonah croaked. His voice was sandpaper.
“It’s awful.”
“Yeah.”
They didn’t move for a long time. The reality of their new independence curdled in the acid air. This was their flat, their first night, and they had christened it with vomit and shame. Jonah finally pushed himself up, his legs weak. He filled two glasses with water from the tap, spilling half of it. He handed one to Tom. Their fingers brushed, cold and clammy.
“Bed,” Jonah said.
They managed to shed their shoes and their vomit-stained shirts. In just their jeans, they collapsed onto the bare mattress in the bedroom, the sheets still in a suitcase somewhere. They didn’t touch. They lay on their backs, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, listening to the other’s ragged breathing. The room still spun for Jonah if he closed his eyes.
“I swallowed your come,” Jonah said into the darkness. The statement was bald, factual.
Tom let out a weak, shaky laugh that sounded almost like a sob.“I know. That was… before. That was good.”
“It was,” Jonah whispered.
The memory of it—the taste, the weight, the desperate, drunken need—was a small, clean flame in the centre of the physical wreckage. It was theirs. It was real. It was the only thing that hadn’t turned to poison.
Tom’s hand slid across the mattress, his fingers finding Jonah’s. They laced together, a tight, desperate grip. Jonah turned his head. In the dim light, he saw Tom looking back at him, his eyes exhausted, his round face splotchy. He didn’t look beautiful in any conventional way. He looked honest. He looked like home.
“We’re okay,” Tom whispered.
Jonah squeezed his hand. The nausea was still there, a low, threatening hum. The room still tilted. But holding onto Tom, in their own vomit-scented, empty flat, he knew it was true. They were a mess. They were together. They were okay.