Chapter 2: Morning glow
The grey morning light did nothing to soften the room’s chaos, finding the empty whiskey bottle first, then the candle hardened into a lavender-scented pool of wax. Tommy became aware of the sticky patch cooling on his stomach, the deep, pleasant ache in his muscles, and the solid warmth of Chanse plastered along his back.
“Someone was fucking eager last night,” Chanse’s voice was a sleep-roughened rasp against the nape of his neck.
Heat flooded Tommy’s face, a ridiculous reaction considering everything they’d done. “I don’t… usually. Come like that. Once is a mission.” He stared at the cracked plaster of the ceiling, feeling exposed. “I don’t know what happened.”
Chanse’s arm tightened around his chest, his hand splaying wide over Tommy’s heartbeat. “I liked it.” The words were simple, a statement of fact dropped into the quiet. “Seeing you lose it like that. Then need it again.” He nuzzled into the space behind Tommy’s ear. “Fucking loved it.”
Tommy let out a shaky breath, the tension leaking out of him. He shifted, wincing slightly, the soreness a blunt reminder. “We have to get up,” he murmured, making no move to disentangle himself.
“We do.” Chanse’s lips brushed his shoulder blade. “Not yet though.” His hand drifted lower, tracing the trail of hair below Tommy’s navel, a lazy, possessive mapping. Tommy’s cock, soft and spent, twitched against his thigh at the familiar touch.
Tommy groaned, a soft, yielding sound that had nothing to do with pain. “You’re a menace,” he mumbled into the pillow, arching back into the touch. Chanse’s chuckle vibrated against his spine.
“Just appreciating the view.” His fingers trailed lower, a feather-light pass over sensitive skin. Tommy’s hips jerked, a helpless, involuntary spasm.
“Still so responsive,” Chanse murmured, his voice thick with a possessive wonder that made Tommy’s throat tighten. He didn’t tease for long, his palm settling with a firm, warm weight that promised more. The city’s distant hum filled the quiet between them.
“You know we have a games shoot at ten,” Tommy said, his words half-lost in the cotton. Chanse’s hand stilled.
“I know what time it is.” His lips pressed a kiss to Tommy’s shoulder. “I also know you came three times last night begging for it, and now you’re trying to talk about work.” He shifted, his body slotting more firmly against Tommy’s, and Tommy felt him, hard and interested. “Priorities, man.”
A laugh punched out of Tommy, surprised and genuine. “You’re impossible.” He turned his head, seeking Chanse’s mouth in the muted light. The kiss tasted of sleep and them, deep and lingering. When they broke apart, Tommy was breathless. “Fine. No work talk.”
“Good.” Chanse’s hand moved again, a slow, deliberate stroke that drew a sharp gasp. “Just this.” Every nerve ending was still alive, singing from the night before, and the fresh touch was almost too much. Tommy buried his face in the pillow, his body taut with a sudden, renewed need.
The scent clung to them as Chanse finally, reluctantly, slid from the bed. The cold air hit Tommy’s skin, a shock that made him gasp. He watched Chanse pad naked toward the bedroom door, the muscles in his back shifting with a lean grace.
“Coffee,” Chanse declared, not looking back.
Tommy hauled himself up, his body protesting with a chorus of satisfying aches. He pulled on a pair of discarded sweatpants and followed the sound of clinking porcelain into the small, sunlit kitchen. Chanse was already at the counter, meticulously measuring grounds into the French press.
“You take it way too seriously,” Tommy mumbled, leaning against the doorframe.
“And you drink motor oil,” Chanse shot back, not missing a beat. He poured the steaming water in a slow, circular motion, his concentration absolute. “Just because you have the palate of a college freshman doesn’t mean I have to suffer.”
A quiet smile touched Tommy’s lips. This was their rhythm. The familiar, comfortable bickering was a blanket over the raw intimacy of the night before. He studied the line of Chanse’s jaw, the soft brown curls catching the morning light. “It got the job done this morning.”
Chanse’s eyes flicked up, a spark in the hazel. “Barely.” He pushed the plunger down with firm, even pressure. “You were seconds from negotiating for a fifth round.” The rich, dark aroma filled the kitchen, cutting through the last vestiges of sleep and sex. Tommy accepted the offered mug, his fingers brushing Chanse’s.
The touch lingered, a silent current between them in the sun-drenched kitchen. Tommy took a slow sip, the bitter heat grounding him. "Good," he said, voice still rough from sleep and other things.
Chanse leaned against the counter, watching him over the rim of his own mug. The city noises from the cracked window in the bedroom were distant here, replaced by the hum of the refrigerator. "You're quiet," Chanse observed, his tone softer than usual.
Tommy shrugged, the movement making his sore muscles protest. "Just thinking about last night." He met Chanse's gaze, held it. "About how you kept me right on the edge until I was begging."
A faint smile played on Chanse's lips, but his eyes were serious. "You needed it." He said it like a fact, simple and undeniable. Tommy put his mug down with a soft clink on the counter.
"I did." He stepped closer, closing the space between them. The scent of coffee mixed with Chanse's skin, familiar and intoxicating. "I always need it," Tommy admitted, the words falling raw into the quiet.
Chanse set his mug aside, his hands coming up to frame Tommy's face. His thumbs brushed over the stubble on Tommy's jaw, a gentle rasp. "I know," Chanse whispered, his hazel eyes searching Tommy's brown ones.
They kissed again. It was slower this time, deep and tasting of coffee and something sweeter, a promise lingering in the touch. Tommy felt the solid counter edge press into his lower back, a stark contrast to Chanse’s soft lips. He let out a soft, surrendering sigh right into Chanse’s mouth.
“We’re gonna be late,” Tommy murmured, his words a vibration against Chanse’s skin.
“Mhm...” Chanse’s hands slid from Tommy’s jaw, down the column of his throat, over the plains of his chest. His fingers traced the faint scratches left from hours before, a possessive map. Tommy shivered, the good ache in his muscles flaring bright under the attention.
He let his head fall back with a dull thud against the cupboard. “I can barely walk straight, and you’re starting again.”
“I am not starting anything” Chanse’s voice was low, a rumble Tommy felt in his own bones. His palm smoothed over the tight, sore muscles of Tommy’s abdomen. Tommy hissed, a sharp intake of breath that was more pleasure than pain. The morning light caught the silver of Chanse’s bracelet as his hand moved.
The morning light caught the silver of Chanse’s bracelet as his hand moved. His fingers curled into the waistband of Tommy’s sweats, tugging just once. “This,” Chanse said, his voice all gravel, “is a delay. Not a start.”
Tommy’s laugh was a breathless thing. “Semantics.” He didn’t resist as the fabric slid down his hips.
Chanse’s palm was a brand on his bare skin, hot and knowing. “You’re still so wrecked from last night.” He said it like he was admiring his own handiwork, which he was. Tommy shuddered, the acute soreness a direct line to his exhausted nerves.
“And whose fault is that?” Tommy gripped the counter’s edge, his knuckles whitening.
“You begged for it.” Chanse’s lips found the juncture of Tommy’s neck and shoulder, his teeth a sharp promise.
The insistent, abrasive buzz of a phone shattered the quiet. It vibrated against the kitchen countertop, a frantic, mechanical beetle. Chanse froze, his mouth still a hot brand on Tommy’s skin.
Tommy let out a ragged groan, his head falling forward. “Ignore it,” he murmured, his voice thick.
“Can’t.” Chanse pulled back, his expression shifting from heated to harried in a blink. He snatched the phone, his thumb swiping the screen. “It’s Angela. The group chat is trying to push back games this morning".
The space between them turned cold, clinical. Tommy straightened up, the ache in his body now feeling foolish, exposed. He tugged his sweatpants back into place, the elastic snapping against his skin with a final sound.
“Right.” Tommy turned toward the sink, needing distance. “The shoot.”
“They’re at work already, wondering where we are.” Chanse’s tone was all business, the softness from moments ago sealed shut. He typed a quick response, his thumbs tapping efficiently.
Tommy watched him, the strong line of his back now a barrier. The lavender scent from the bedroom seemed silly now, drowned by the smell of stale coffee and responsibility. He ran a hand through his bleached hair, tugging at the roots.
“So we’re good?” Chanse asked, not looking up from his phone. “To just… show up and be normal?”
“We’re always normal.” Tommy’s reply was too quick, too sharp. He winced at his own tone. “Yeah. We’re good.”
Chanse finally looked at him, his hazel eyes scanning Tommy’s face. He opened his mouth, closed it, then nodded once. “I’m gonna grab a shower first.” He pushed off from the counter, leaving his half-finished coffee cooling in the mug.
The bathroom door clicked shut a moment later. The shower hissed to life. Tommy stood alone in the bright, empty kitchen, the city’s hum once again the only sound.
Tommy stared at the vibrating phone until it went dark. The shower's roar down the hall felt like a dismissal. He walked toward the sound, his bare feet silent on the cold floor.
Steam curled from under the bathroom door. Tommy leaned against the frame, watching the blurred shape of Chanse through the foggy glass. “Normal feels like a fucking performance today,” he said, his voice cutting through the water’s noise.
Chanse didn’t turn around. “What do you want me to say, Tom?” The water shut off with a sudden twist. “We knew the deal.”
“The deal.” Tommy pushed the door open, letting the thick, damp air hit him. Chanse was reaching for a towel, his movements sharp. “Right. The secret. My bad for forgetting for five seconds.”
“Don’t.” Chanse roughly toweled his hair, avoiding Tommy’s eyes. “It wasn't even my idea in the first place.” He finally looked over, his gaze hard. “You're the one wanting to keep this a secret.”
“That’s not fair.” The words felt weak. Tommy crossed his arms, the bracelet on his wrist cold against his skin.
“What’s not fair is you picking a fight because you’re sore.” Chanse’s voice was low, dangerous. “I can’t fix today just because last night was good.”
“It wasn’t just good.” Tommy stepped into the steam, the heat clinging to him. “And this isn’t about that.”
“Then what’s it about?” Chanse threw the towel down. “Tell me.”
The silence between them stretched, filled only by the drip of the showerhead. Tommy looked at the man he loved, standing there tense and beautiful, and felt a canyon open between the bedroom and this damp tile. He had no words that wouldn’t make it worse.
He turned and walked out, leaving the steam and the argument behind him.
He turned and walked out, leaving the steam and the argument behind him.
Chanse stood dripping on the tiles, the echo of the slammed door vibrating in his chest. He dressed quickly in the clothes from last night, the fabric sour with dried sweat and memory.
HE FOLLOWS HIM.
He found Tommy in the wreck of the bedroom, yanking a faded band t-shirt over his head. The muscles in his back coiled with a tension that had nothing to do with soreness. Chanse leaned against the doorframe, watching him.
“Tommy.” The name came out quieter than he intended.
Tommy didn’t turn, just shoved his feet into battered sneakers. “We’re late.”
“Yeah.” Chanse pushed off the frame and crossed the room. He stopped behind Tommy, close enough to feel his body heat. He didn’t touch him. “What I said in there. About it being your idea.”
Tommy went very still.
“Was shitty,” Chanse finished, his voice dropping. He pressed his forehead between Tommy’s shoulder blades, his breath warm through the thin cotton. “I’m sorry.”
The apology sank into Tommy’s rigid spine, melting something tight. He let out a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping. “It was my idea.” He didn’t turn around.
Chanse’s hands settled on his hips, thumbs rubbing small circles. “I know why.”
“You don’t.” The words tasted like a lie. Tommy stared at the rumpled sheets, the evidence of everything they were hiding. “If we tell them… it becomes a thing they can hold. They’ll have an opinion.”
“They’re our friends.”
“Exactly.” Tommy finally turned, finding Chanse’s patient eyes. “And then it’s real. And real things get broken.” He looked away, ashamed. “It’s stupid.”
Chanse cupped his jaw, forcing his gaze back. “It’s not.” His thumb stroked Tommy’s cheek. “But it’s heavy, carrying it alone like this.” He searched Tommy’s face. “The sneaking around… it’s getting old, Tom.”
Tommy leaned into the touch, closing his eyes. “I know.” He covered Chanse’s hand with his own, the silver bracelets cold against their skin. “But what if they look at me and just see… this? What if they decide you can do better?”
“They’d be wrong.” Chanse’s voice was absolute. He pulled Tommy into a hard, quiet embrace. The city heartbeat outside felt very far away. “But we’re late,” he whispered into Tommy’s hair.
“Right.” Tommy held on for a second longer, memorizing the feel of him. Then he pulled back, smearing a hand over his face. “Performance time.”
The climb down the three flights of stairs felt like a descent into a different atmosphere, the building’s stale, overheated air replaced by the city’s gritty breath. Chanse adjusted his cap, pulling the brim low as they pushed through the heavy front door into the brittle morning light. A delivery truck rattled past, and the normalcy of the sound felt like an accusation.
They walked in step, shoulders almost touching but not. “So we just did the whole fight-and-make-up thing in record time,” Tommy said, his voice aiming for lightness and missing.
“We’re professionals,” Chanse said, a flicker of his usual smirk returning. He glanced over, his hazel eyes catching the thin morning light. “Besides, what fight? I just wanted another shower.”
Tommy snorted, the sound dissolving some of the chill in his chest. A taxi horn blared, and they instinctively stepped closer together on the crowded sidewalk. “Right. A shower. That’s what all the yelling was about.”
“You love my yelling.” Chanse’s shoulder bumped his, a brief, solid point of contact. “Admit it. It gets you going.” He said it like a joke, but the undertow was serious, pulling at the memory of Tommy’s raw, pleading voice in the dark.
Tommy didn’t answer, just watched his own feet move against the concrete. The familiar weight of his silver bracelets felt suddenly conspicuous. “They’re gonna know,” he muttered, more to himself than to Chanse. “Angela has a fucking sixth sense for this stuff.”
“So let her know.” Chanse stopped walking, forcing Tommy to halt beside a grimy newsstand. The smell of ink and damp paper filled the space between them. “I’m tired of pretending I don’t look at you all day.”
The city noise seemed to drop away. Tommy stared at him, the careful performance crumbling. “Chanse…”
“Not here.” Chanse grabbed his wrist, the touch firm, and pulled him into the narrow, shadowed alley beside the building. Graffiti scrawled over brick, a stark backdrop. “Here.”
He didn’t ask. He just kissed him—a deep, claiming thing that tasted of coffee and unresolved fear and want. Tommy’s protest died in his throat, his hands coming up to fist in Chanse’s jacket, holding on like a lifeline. It was an answer, a confession, and a desperate, quiet peace, all at once.
They broke apart, breaths mingling in the cold alley air. “Okay,” Tommy whispered, forehead resting against Chanse’s.
“Okay,” Chanse echoed, his thumb wiping at Tommy’s lower lip. “Now we’re really late.”
The alley’s damp chill clung to them as they broke apart, a sharp contrast to the heat of the kiss. Chanse kept his grip on Tommy’s wrist, his thumb rubbing over the silver bracelet there. “We should run,” he said, but he made no move to do so.
Tommy’s laughter was a quiet, disbelieving puff of air in the cold. “You just ambushed me in an alley.”
“You loved it.” Chanse finally released him, stepping back onto the busy sidewalk. The city’s rhythm swallowed them again, impersonal and loud.
They walked faster now, a purposeful stride towards the studio a few blocks away. “Angela is going to skin us,” Tommy said, dodging a crowd of tourists.
“Let her try.” Chanse adjusted his cap, a familiar gesture of readiness. “We’ll just tell her the truth.”
Tommy shot him a look. “That we were delayed by a deeply emotional, identity-forging make-out session next to a dumpster?”
“Exactly.” Chanse’s grin was quick and brilliant. “She’ll respect the honesty.”
The studio door loomed ahead, a sleek, dark slab in the old brick building. Tommy’s confidence, which had felt so solid in the alley, began to ebb. He could already hear the chaotic hum of their friends inside.
Chanse sensed the shift. He stopped just before the door, his hand on the handle. “Hey.” His voice was low, for Tommy alone. “It’s just us being us. Same as always.”
Tommy met his eyes, saw the steady certainty there. He took a deep breath, the city air filling his lungs. “Same as always,” he echoed, but the words felt different now. They felt like a promise.
Chanse pulled the door open. The noise of the lobby—jangling keys, the receptionist’s phone ringing—spilled out. He stepped through, holding it open for Tommy.
Before Tommy crossed the threshold, Chanse reached out. He hooked a finger gently under Tommy’s chin, tilting his face just slightly.
They kissed again. This one was soft, a brief and perfect seal on everything unsaid. It tasted like cold air and resolve.
Then Chanse turned, walking into the bright, noisy lobby without looking back. Tommy followed, the ghost of the kiss a warmth on his lips.