Chapter 2: Well this is awkward
The silence after Derek left was a physical thing, a dense fog that filled the living room and made the air hard to breathe. Marcus stayed on the floor, the frayed rug scratching his thighs, the cooling stickiness on his shirt a cold brand. He could hear the faint, tense sounds of Derek moving in his room—a drawer sliding shut too hard, the creak of bedsprings bearing a sudden weight.“Nothing,” Derek had said. The word echoed in the hollow space.But it wasn’t nothing. The evidence was smeared on his skin, a raw, aching sensitivity thrumming between his legs. He felt flayed open, every nerve ending exposed. With a slow, weary effort, he pulled his sweatpants up, wincing at the rough drag of fabric. He stood, his legs unsteady, and peeled the soiled t-shirt over his head. He balled it up, adding it to the wastebasket with its predecessor, burying the proof deeper.
He needed a shower, but the thought of walking past Derek’s door, of hearing the lock maybe engage again, was unbearable. Instead, he went to the kitchen sink, ran the water icy cold, and splashed his face. He scrubbed his hands with dish soap until they were red, the sharp lemon scent overwhelming the other, more intimate smells.The house was a warzone of quiet. Usually, by now, Derek would have put on some terrible reality TV show for background noise, or would be clanging weights in the basement. Now, there was only the hum of the refrigerator and the low, persistent buzz of Marcus’s own anxiety.
He made tea, the ritual familiar and pointless. As he waited for the kettle to whistle, he stared out the small kitchen window at the fenced-in yard.The grass was getting long. Derek usually mowed it.Derek usually did a lot of things.
The whistle screamed, shattering the quiet.Marcus flinched, fumbling with the kettle. As he poured the boiling water, his hand shook, sloshing it onto the counter.
“Shit.”
“You burn yourself?” Derek’s voice, from the hallway, was flat.Marcus turned. Derek was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest.He’d changed into a fresh grey t-shirt and jeans. He looked like Derek again. But his eyes were the same—distant, guarded, looking at Marcus like he was a problem to be solved.“No. I’m fine.”
Derek nodded, once.He didn’t move. “We need to talk.”
“Okay.” The word felt small.“Not here.” Derek pushed off the doorframe.“Backyard. Five minutes.”
He turned and walked away, not waiting for an answer. Marcus listened to his footsteps retreat, then the sound of the back door opening and closing.He looked down at his steaming mug. His reflection in the dark liquid was distorted, unfamiliar.
The backyard air was cool, a relief from the house’s stifling atmosphere.Derek was standing by the unkempt lawn, looking up at the grey sky. He had two beers in his hand.He held one out without looking.
Marcus took it, the glass cold and wet.He didn’t open it.
“This is fucked up,” Derek said, still not looking at him.He stated it as a fact, like noting the weather.
“Yeah.”
“We can’t keep… doing that.” Derek finally took a swig from his bottle. “It’s making things weird.”
A hysterical laugh bubbled in Marcus’s throat.He choked it down.Making things weird. As if the foundations of their entire shared history hadn’t already been detonated.
“What was it, then?” Marcus asked, his voice quieter than he intended.“If it was ‘nothing’? If it was just a ‘tool’?”
Derek’s shoulders tensed.He took another long pull of beer. “It was a mistake.A… lapse.We’re isolated.Stressed. It’s a known thing. People do weird shit.”
“People don’t usually jerk their best friend off twice in twenty-four hours.”
“Don’t.” Derek’s head snapped towards him, eyes flashing.“Don’t fucking analyze it, Marcus.That’s your problem. You pick everything apart until it’s a fucking mess in your head.”
“It’s already a mess!” Marcus countered, his own anger rising, hot and surprising. “You don’t get to do what we did and then tell me not to think about it. You kissed me.”
Derek looked away, jaw working. He drained his beer and set the bottle down on the patio table with a definitive clank.“I don’t know why I did that. It didn’t mean anything.”
“It felt like it did.”
“Well, it didn’t!” Derek rounded on him, his face a mask of frustrated defiance.“Listen, I like women. I love women.I miss pussy so bad I can taste it.This… thing with us? It’s a substitute.A placeholder.It’s just biology. Two animals in a cage figuring out the easiest way to get off.”
The words were meant to be brutal, to establish a boundary. They stripped the acts of all intimacy, reducing them to a transaction. Marcus felt them land, each one a small, precise cut.
“So I’m just a warm hole,” Marcus said, echoing Derek’s earlier crude justification but twisting it, making it ugly.
Derek had the decency to look sickened. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.” Marcus finally opened his beer, took a sip.It tasted bitter.“Fine.Okay. It was nothing.A biological placeholder. We’re clear.”
They stood in the cooling twilight, the space between them vast and charged with everything unsaid. The easy camaraderie of twenty-one years was gone, replaced by this brittle, dangerous thing.
“We should just… get it out of our systems,” Derek said suddenly, the words rushing out as if he’d been holding them back by force.
Marcus stared at him.“What?”
Derek wouldn’t meet his eyes. He studied the fence like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.“Think about it. It’s all we can think about, right?It’s like a… a fucking splinter. We keep picking at it.Maybe if we just… do it.Once.On purpose. Get it done, then we can move the fuck on.”
The logic was perverse, childish, and utterly Derek.If you have a problem, you attack it head-on. He was applying gym logic to the wreckage of their friendship.“You’re serious,” Marcus said, not a question.
“Dead serious.” Derek’s gaze finally locked onto his. The defiance was back, but underneath it, Marcus saw a desperate, shaky confusion.“One time.Properly. So we know what it is. Then we box it up and throw away the key.”
“And that’ll fix it?”
“It’ll get it out of our heads.”
Marcus knew it was a terrible idea. A catastrophic idea. He also knew, looking at Derek’s strained face, hearing the unspoken plea beneath the gruff words, that neither of them had the strength to just walk away. The curiosity was a poison, and Derek was offering a larger dose as the cure.
His heart was pounding again, that same frantic rhythm from the couch, from the rug. He felt the pull, a dark, magnetic drag downwards.“Okay,” he heard himself say.
Derek’s eyes widened slightly, as if he hadn’t actually expected agreement.He nodded, a sharp, mechanical gesture. “My room. Ten minutes.” He turned and walked inside, leaving his empty bottle on the table.Marcus stood alone in the yard, the sky deepening to indigo. He finished his beer, the chill seeping into his bones.This was insanity.They were architects of their own ruin. He walked inside, his footsteps heavy on the linoleum.
The door to Derek’s room was open a crack.A slice of yellow light cut across the dark hallway.Marcus pushed it open.
Derek was standing at the foot of his bed, which was neatly made, a stark contrast to the chaos of the living room.He’d pulled the curtains shut. The only light came from a stark overhead fixture. He looked like a soldier awaiting orders, his body rigid, hands clenched at his sides.“Close the door,” Derek said.His voice had lost its earlier bluster. It was quiet, tense.Marcus closed it.The click of the latch was incredibly loud. He leaned back against it, the wood solid against his spine.
For a long moment, they just looked at each other across the ten feet of beige carpet.
“How do you want to…” Marcus began, but his voice trailed off.“Don’t know,” Derek admitted. He ran a hand over his shaved head.“Just… come here.”
Marcus pushed off the door. Each step felt weighted.When he was within arm’s reach, Derek reached out, but not to pull him close. He placed his big hands on Marcus’s shoulders, as if gauging his solidity. His thumbs brushed the sides of Marcus’s neck.The touch was electric, painfully intimate.
Derek’s eyes searched his face, looking for something—permission, maybe, or an excuse to stop.He found neither.With a ragged inhale, Derek bent his head and kissed him.
This wasn’t the fierce, battle-like kiss from before.It was slower, deeper, more exploratory. Derek’s lips were surprisingly soft. His tongue slid into Marcus’s mouth, tentative at first, then with more confidence. He tasted of beer and a faint mint, and the sheer, overwhelming Derek-ness of it made Marcus weak. He brought his hands up, settling them on Derek’s hips, feeling the solid bone beneath denim.
Derek moaned softly into his mouth, the sound vibrating through them both.It broke something.The careful control shattered.
Derek’s hands dropped from his shoulders, fumbling with the button of Marcus’s jeans. Marcus did the same, fingers clumsy against Derek’s fly. They broke the kiss, breathing harshly, working to push fabric down, to step out of jeans and boxers, kicking them aside. They were naked, standing in the sterile light, fully exposed.
Derek’s gaze raked over him, hungry and awed.“Fuck,” he breathed. He closed the last inch between them, their bodies aligning.Skin to skin, chest to chest, cock to cock. The full-body contact was shocking, almost unbearable in its intensity. Derek was so solid, so warm, a furnace against him. He wrapped his arms around Marcus, pulling him tighter, his hands splaying across Marcus’s bare back.They stumbled backwards, landing on the bed with Derek half underneath. The weight, the reality of it—Derek beneath him, the coarse hair on his thighs scratching against Marcus’s own, the sheer bulk of him—sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through Marcus’s system.
Derek’s hands were everywhere—gripping his ass, sliding up his spine, cupping the back of his head. He was kissing him again, deep and messy, his hips rocking up, their erections sliding together in the slick of pre-come already leaking between them.
“Want you,” Derek gasped against his mouth.The confession was raw, stripped of all pretense. “Don’t know how, but I want you.”
Marcus shivered. He lowered his head, trailing kisses down Derek’s neck, the salt-tang of his skin intoxicating. He took one of Derek’s flat nipples into his mouth, sucking, grazing it with his teeth.“Jesus Christ,” Derek choked out, his back arching. His hands tangled in Marcus’s hair, not guiding, just holding on.
Marcus moved lower, his mouth charting a path down the hard plane of Derek’s abdomen. He nosed through the coarse blonde hair at his groin, the musky, masculine scent of him filling his senses. He hesitated for only a second, his mind screaming a dozen warnings he chose to ignore. Then he took the head of Derek’s cock into his mouth.Derek cried out, a strangled, broken sound.“Oh, fuck. Marcus.Oh, god.”
The taste was bitter, salty, profoundly unfamiliar. Marcus relaxed his jaw, letting his mouth sink down, taking more.Derek was thick, stretching his lips. He used his tongue, exploring the veined underside, and Derek’s hips jerked involuntarily.
“Wait, wait,” Derek gasped, his hands pushing at Marcus’s shoulders. “Stop or I’ll…”
Marcus pulled off, a string of saliva connecting his lip to Derek’s glistening crown. He looked up the length of Derek’s body. Derek was propped on his elbows, watching him with wild, desperate eyes, his chest heaving.
“I want to,” Marcus said, his own voice ragged.“Not like that,” Derek said. He shifted, moving with a sudden, startling purpose.He rolled Marcus onto his back, pinning him with his weight. He looked down, his expression fierce, almost angry.“I want to fuck you.”
The words were a lightning strike. Marcus’s whole body went tight, then flushed with a heat that was half terror, half dizzying want. “I… we don’t have…”
“I have stuff,” Derek muttered, reaching over to yank open his nightstand drawer. He pulled out a half-empty bottle of lube and a condom.He held them up, his face flushing dark red.“From… before. Just in case.”
The “in case” hung between them—a phantom girlfriend, a hopeful weekend that never happened.Now, it was for this.“Okay,” Marcus whispered.
Derek tore the condom packet open with his teeth.He sheathed himself, his hands trembling visibly. He poured a generous amount of lube into his palm, warming it. His eyes never left Marcus’s face as he reached between Marcus’s legs.
The first touch of Derek’s slick fingers against his hole made Marcus flinch, a bolt of sharp, startling sensation.Derek paused. “Alright?”
“Yeah.Just… go slow.”
Derek nodded, his brow furrowed in concentration. He pressed one finger inside, gently, his other hand smoothing over Marcus’s thigh. The intrusion was strange, tight, a faint burn. Derek worked it in and out, his touch oddly tender amidst the brutal honesty of their situation.He added a second finger, scissoring, stretching.
“You’re so tight,” Derek murmured, more to himself than to Marcus. “Fuck.”
When he pressed a third finger in, the burn intensified, but beneath it, Marcus felt a sudden, shocking spark of pleasure.He moaned, his hips lifting off the bed.
“There?” Derek asked, his voice gravel.“Yeah. There.”
Derek crooked his fingers, finding the spot again, and Marcus saw stars, his hands fisting in the bedsheets. “Do it,” he panted.“Now.Derek, please.”
Derek withdrew his fingers. He positioned himself, the blunt, rubber-sheathed head of his cock pressing against Marcus. He leaned over him, bracing his weight on his forearms, their faces inches apart. His breathing was harsh, his eyes wide, dark pools of conflict and need.
“Tell me to stop,” Derek whispered, a last, fraught offering.“Don’t you dare.”
Derek pushed in.
The pain was sharp, immense, a tearing, overwhelming fullness. Marcus cried out, a short, guttural sound of shock. Derek froze, buried to the hilt, his body trembling with the effort of holding still.Sweat dripped from his temple onto Marcus’s chest.
“Breathe,” Derek gritted out.“Just breathe.”
Marcus forced air into his lungs. The pain began to recede, slowly, melting into a deep, profound pressure.He felt stuffed, owned, completely filled. He moved his hips experimentally, and the sensation shifted, the spark of pleasure flaring again beneath the ache.“Move,” Marcus said.Derek withdrew slowly, then slid back in. The glide was easier now, the lube doing its work. He set a slow, deep rhythm, each thrust punching a soft grunt from Marcus’s throat. It was an utterly different kind of sex—submissive, vulnerable, a raw opening. He wrapped his legs around Derek’s waist, pulling him closer, deeper.Derek’s control snapped. His thrusts became harder, faster, driving the breath from Marcus’s lungs. The bedframe slammed against the wall in a steady, brutal beat. Derek’s face was buried in Marcus’s neck, his hot breath panting against his skin.
“You feel… you feel so fucking good,” Derek moaned, the words slurred, almost sobbed. “I can’t… I didn’t know…”
Marcus clung to him, nails digging into the bunched muscles of Derek’s back. The pain was gone, transformed into a blinding, building pleasure, centered on that spot Derek hit with every piston-like drive. His own cock, trapped between their sweating bodies, was leaking furiously.
“I’m gonna come,” Marcus warned, the coil in his gut winding impossibly tight.
“Come for me,” Derek growled into his ear, his voice filthy and tender all at once. “Come on my dick.”
The permission, the crude encouragement, was the final trigger. Pleasure detonated through Marcus, a silent, white-hot nova. He came in thick, helpless pulses between their stomachs, his body clenching down hard on Derek’s cock, milking him.
The sensation tipped Derek over. With a raw, shattered cry, Derek stiffened, his hips hammering forward one last, jerking time as he came inside the condom. He collapsed, his full weight crushing Marcus into the mattress, his face hidden.
For a long time, the only sounds were their ragged, slowing breaths and the hum of the overhead light.Derek’s sweat cooled on Marcus’s skin.
Slowly, Derek pushed himself up. He looked down at Marcus, his expression utterly blank, wiped clean of everything.He gently pulled out, the loss making Marcus gasp softly. Derek tied off the condom, disposed of it, and walked to the adjoining bathroom without a word.The shower started.
Marcus lay in the wreckage of the bed, the smell of sex and sweat and rubber thick in the air.He felt raw, used, profoundly connected, and completely shattered.
This wasn’t getting it out of their systems.This was planting it deeper, wiring it into their very bones. Derek’s theory was catastrophically wrong.The water ran. Marcus stared at the closed bathroom door, and knew, with a cold, sinking certainty, that nothing was solved. The box was wide open, and they had both climbed inside.
The box was wide open, and they had both climbed inside.
Marcus listened to the shower’s spray, a steady white noise that did nothing to clean the silence in the room. His body felt both heavy and hollow, a vessel recently occupied. The ache between his legs was a dull, persistent throb, a physical bookmark in a chapter he couldn’t unread. He stared at the ceiling’s textured plaster, a landscape of tiny peaks and valleys his mind could get lost in.The water shut off. A different kind of quiet descended, anticipatory and thick. The bathroom door opened, releasing a plume of steam. Derek emerged, a towel slung low on his hips, his skin pink and glistening. He didn’t look at Marcus. He moved to his dresser, yanking drawers open, his movements sharp and efficient.
“You should shower,” Derek said to a pile of socks. His voice was neutral, sanded clean of the moans and pleas from minutes before.
“Yeah.”
Marcus didn’t move. He watched the tense lines of Derek’s back, the way his shoulders refused to relax. “Derek.”
“Don’t.” The word was a door slammed. “Just don’t, Marcus. Not now.” Derek pulled on a pair of boxer briefs, then jeans. He finally turned, his eyes scanning the room, looking everywhere except at the man on his bed. “Did it work?” he asked, the question rigid.
“Did what work?”
“Getting it out of our systems.” Derek’s gaze finally landed on him, and it was barren. “Do you feel fixed?”
Marcus let out a breath that was almost a laugh.It hurt his ribs. “No.”
“Me neither.” Derek looked away, running a hand over his shaved scalp. “Fuck.”
“It wasn’t supposed to fix anything,” Marcus said, pushing himself up on his elbows. The sheet pooled around his waist. “You said it was to know what it is. So we know.”
“And what is it?” Derek challenged, his voice rising. “What’s the diagnosis, doc? Huh?”
Marcus floundered. The words weren’t there, just a swirl of sensation—the crushing weight, the piercing fullness, the shocking tenderness in Derek’s hands before the fury took over. “It’s… complicated.”
“Complicated.” Derek snatched the word like it offended him. “Right.Complicated. A complicated fucking mistake.” He grabbed a hoodie from the floor and pulled it on. “I’m going for a drive.”
“It’s late.”
“I don’t care.” Derek was already at the door. He paused, his hand on the knob, his back once again to Marcus. “Clean yourself up. And… air the room out.”
Then he was gone. The front door opened and closed a moment later, followed by the growl of his car engine and the crunch of gravel under tires. Marcus was alone with the smell of sex and Derek’s shampoo.
He dragged himself to the shower. The hot water stung his sensitive skin. He scrubbed, but the feeling of invasion remained, a ghost limb of Derek inside him. He leaned his forehead against the cool tile, letting the water pound his neck. A placeholder.A tool. The words echoed, but they wouldn’t stick. Not after that. Not after Derek had trembled and whispered you feel so fucking good into his skin.
He didn’t sleep in Derek’s bed. He returned to the couch, a nomadic creature in his own home. The night stretched, long and hollow. He heard the car return around three AM, the careful tread of Derek avoiding the creaky floorboard, the soft click of his bedroom door.
The next morning was a performance of normalcy so brittle it could shatter. Derek made extra coffee. Marcus ate toast he didn’t taste. They spoke about nothing—the weather, a news headline, the leaky faucet. The space between their words was a canyon.
Days blurred into a tense ceasefire. They orbited each other, gravity still pulling but fought at every turn. Derek spent hours in the basement, punishing the weight rack. Marcus buried himself in digital canvases, creating violent, colorful storms that mirrored the turmoil inside him. The house was spotless, an obsessive cleanliness that felt like panic.
The itch returned five nights later. It started as a glance held a second too long across the dinner table. Derek was devouring spaghetti, sauce on his lip. Marcus watched his tongue swipe it away. A hot coil tightened in his gut. Derek looked up, caught him staring. His chewing slowed. The air in the kitchen tightened, grew dense.
“What?” Derek asked, his voice low.
“Nothing.” Marcus looked down at his own plate.
They finished the meal in silence. They washed the dishes, shoulders brushing at the sink. The contact was a jolt. Derek dropped a plate. It shattered in the sink, a sharp, disastrous sound.
“Shit,” Derek muttered, staring at the pieces.
Marcus reached in to help. Their fingers touched among the shards. Derek’s hand closed over his, not to move it, but to hold it there, pinned against the wet ceramic. His grip was painfully tight. Marcus looked at him. Derek’s eyes were dark, helpless, furious with want.
“I can’t stop thinking about it,” Derek whispered, the confession ripped from him.
“I know.”
“I want to hate it.”
“Do you?”
Derek didn’t answer. He pulled Marcus’s hand from the sink, water dripping onto the floor. He led him, wordlessly, not to the bedroom, but to the living room couch. He pushed Marcus down onto the same worn cushions where it had all begun. There was no discussion, no premise of experimentation. This was pure compulsion.
Derek undid his own jeans, freeing his cock, already fully hard and angry-looking. He spit into his palm, slicking himself roughly. He didn’t ask. He manhandled Marcus, turning him onto his stomach on the couch, pushing his hips down so his ass was raised. Marcus went, his heart hammering against the cushion.
There was no preparation, no tenderness. Derek used the spit and his own pre-come as lubrication, pressing the blunt head against Marcus’s entrance. “This what you want?” Derek growled, his voice thick with self-loathing.
“Yes.”
Derek pushed in. The burn was immediate, searing, a dry, brutal stretch. Marcus cried out, the sound muffled by the fabric. Derek didn’t stop. He shoved forward, burying himself in one ruthless stroke. The pain was blinding, a white-hot tear, but beneath it bloomed a shocking, shameful bloom of pleasure. He was being taken, owned, used exactly as Derek had promised—like a tool, a placeholder. The reality of it was horrifying and electrifying.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” Derek groaned, his hands digging into Marcus’s hips. “Even after…” He didn’t finish. He pulled back and drove in again, setting a punishing rhythm. The couch slammed against the wall. Each thrust was a punctuation mark on their confusion.
Marcus pushed back against him, meeting force with force, wanting the ache, the degradation, the awful, clarifying truth of it. “Harder,” he gritted out.
Derek obliged, his thrusts becoming animalistic, desperate. He leaned over, his teeth sinking into the meat of Marcus’ His shoulder, biting down to stifle his own groans. The pain mixed, blended, became indistinguishable from the pleasure coiling in Marcus’s gut. He reached beneath himself, stroking his own cock in time with Derek’s jarring slams.
“Gonna come inside you,” Derek panted, the filth spilling from him. “Gonna fill this fucking placeholder up.”
The words, so crude, so dismissive, tipped Marcus over. He came with a choked gasp, his release spattering the couch cushion beneath him, his body clamping down convulsively on Derek’s driving cock.
The sensation undid Derek. With a ragged, broken shout, he plunged deep and stilled, his body shuddering as he emptied himself. He collapsed heavily onto Marcus’s back, his sweat-slick skin pressed against him, his breath hot and ragged on Marcus’s neck.
They lay there, joined, Derek’s weight pinning him down. The room stank of sex and sweat and shattered pretense. Slowly, Derek softened and slipped out. He rolled off, landing on the floor with a thud, staring at the ceiling as if it had betrayed him.
Marcus didn’t move. The wet spot beneath him cooled. The physical pain was sharp, a raw throb that would linger for days. The other pain, the deeper one, was just settling in.
“See?” Derek said to the ceiling, his voice flat and dead. “Just a hole.”
But he was crying. Silent, miserable tears tracked from the corners of his eyes into his temples. Marcus heard the stifled wetness in his breath.
He turned his head to look at his best friend weeping on the floor. The casual cruelty of the words warred with the absolute devastation on Derek’s face. The box wasn’t just open now. It was splintering apart, and they were both trapped inside, cutting themselves on the broken edges. Marcus reached a hand down, his fingers brushing Derek’s arm.
Derek flinched as if burned. Then he turned, clutching Marcus’意识 hand with a desperation that contradicted everything he’d just said, holding on like it was the only thing keeping him from drowning.