2

 
Funny how a smell or a taste can toss you backwards in time.
There's a book, some famous writer -- French guy, Chris is 
pretty sure, thanks to one of the campus cocksuckers who 
really got into that shit. (The guy had loved to talk during
sex, went on and on about "the great French poets" -- even 
used to quote `em sometimes, when he came. Wasn't hard to 
pick up on a few things now and then, with the guy hollering
it to the rafters. After a while Chris had started to get a 
kick out of it, would even ask where the quotes came from. 
He'd liked the ones from Rimbaud. A Season in Hell -- yeah,
he could relate. And Joe College had laughed, as if that made
perfect sense.)

Beecher'd probably bust a gut if he knew Chris was thinking
about dead poets right now. Then again, if Toby knows
anything about Rimbaud, chances are pretty good he wouldn't 
find it very fucking funny at all.

Anyway, there was this book. Something about your senses 
bringing back the past, like a hands-on version of deja-vu. 
Smart guy, whoever the hell he was.

Beecher's pressed up against him, rubbing him like a hungry 
cat, and Keller's mind reels from sensory recall. Soap-smell
rising from heated skin, spicy tang of shaving cream, even 
the chalky-clean flavor of Beecher's toothpaste. All of it 
explodes into camera-flash fragments from his memory, zapping
him back and forth between then and there, and here and now -- 
until it all starts to get mixed up together in his head.

He drags his mouth away from Toby's long enough to remove the
t-shirt he's wearing, letting his hands glide down the exposed
skin. "My bunk," he suggests, and Toby nods slightly before 
turning and clambering down onto Chris's bed. Christ, he looks
so goddamn good – eyes wide and slightly dazed, his lips wet 
and sheeny from Chris' own mouth, and the rest of him -- all 
neat and clean-cut now, no sign of the madness from before. It
excites Chris to know that beneath that tidy exterior is a tiger 
with a crazy streak.

He wants to hear it roar.

Toby's expression turns impatient. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing."

"Come on, then."

Chris lifts his lips in a wicked grin. "Hey, I spent a lot of time 
picturing you there like that. Can't I get a minute to appreciate
it, now that it's real?"

A flush spreads across Toby's pale skin. "Appreciate it later,"
he snaps.

"Whatever you say, baby," Chris says with a shrug. He ducks
down under the top bunk, suspending himself on all fours above
Toby. "That was our deal, right?" 

Leaning down, he closes his mouth over a nipple and is instantly
rewarded by the quick hitch in Toby's breath. Leisurely, lingeringly,
he moves his head above Toby's chest, mapping the sensitive spots
with his tongue: across the ridge of his collarbone, up the taut line
of his throat, down the curve of his jaw. He feels Toby shiver, and
it's like fire in his blood.

Greedy now, Chris slants his mouth across Toby's. Kissing him is like
that first long drink after a drought, or that 'ping' when the coke hits
your brain – it wipes your mind clean, leaves just that frantic need
for *more*. Toby lifts his hands, fisting them in Chris's hair, and the
wet heat of his mouth, the slick slide of his seeking tongue leaves Chris
trembling, battling to stay in control. 

He'd expected Beecher to be jumpy. Hell, way more than that -- he'd
figured that the bed would be flanked by ghosts on every side. But
instead Toby is giving himself up, surrendering completely, and Chris is 
following fast.

With expert ease, Chris quickly removes the rest of their clothes. 
Bracing himself with his forearms against the mattress, he covers
Toby's body lightly with his own and gifts him with that first, full-length
brush of skin on skin. He dips his head to one side, tongue and teeth
roaming Toby's neck, and the hot, irrefutable proof of Toby's arousal
sends his own spiking sky-high. He'd planned to go slow, to let Toby
call the shots -- he *knows* Toby's gotta be dealing with demons,
here -- but fuck, the little sounds he's making, the frenzied, needy
movements of his hands on Chris' body, are making it impossible to
remember anything at all.

He rises to his knees, drawing Toby's legs up and settling his
body between them. Leaning forward, he stamps a quick kiss on
Toby's mouth before sliding downward, trailing the pale skin 
with his tongue. When his mouth reaches Toby's cock he halts,
and simply breathes; a soft, warm, non-caress, gentle as the 
air itself. Toby's reaction is immediate and intense: his head
rears back against the pillow, hips jerking upward in a blind,
desperate search for Chris' mouth.

How long's it been, baby?

He takes Toby's cock in one hand, resting the tip of it against
his bottom lip. "This what you want?" he asks silkily.

"Fuck, yes."

Chris grips the base of the cock with one hand, then lowers his
head and traces the tip with his tongue. Warm, wet laps around 
the perimeter, long, slashy strokes across the top, followed by
a quick swirl of his tongue over the center; all the while his 
eyes are fixed on Toby, gauging each reaction. Chris feels his
own pulse rising as he wraps his arms beneath Toby's thighs and
takes him deep, deep into his mouth.

There are hours, maybe even days in Chris's sorry past that he
can barely remember; short blips on the timeline of his life 
that are gone now, for one reason or another. There are other 
times that he wishes he could forget -- or better yet, do over
and change. Right here though, right now, he finds himself 
wishing he could stop time: freeze-frame this one moment, make
it the starting point for everything that comes after. Seeing
Toby like this, watching him shudder and shake – it hits Chris
that this is more than it has ever been for him before. Way more
than he had figured on. Not just a favor, a payoff, an easy 
means to a goal – not this time.

"Chrisss…" Toby is close now, Chris knows it; beyond caring
about anything, long as this gets where it's going. He forces 
himself to slow down, keeping his mouth sealed tight around the
rim of Toby's cock while continuing to stroke him lightly with
his hand. He moves his other hand up and presses gently against
Toby's ass, spit-soaked fingers penetrating slowly, carefully,
mindful of the demons.

He knows the moment Toby becomes aware of what he's doing. The
lean body grows tense, the muscles tighten in nervous response.
Deftly, Chris returns his full attention to Toby's cock, opening
his mouth wide and extending his tongue as far as it can reach.
He takes the full shaft deep into his mouth, letting the tip come to
rest against the back of his throat. Toby moans helplessly and 
Chris reaches higher, deeper, feeling for the sensitive gland,
pressing lightly when he finds it. Toby jerks halfway up the bed
in reaction.

"Sweet Jesus." The words, issued through gritted teeth, are
followed by an incoherent rumble from the vicinity of the pillow.

Chris raises his head, his dark eyes now opaque with desire. "Tell
me, Toby."

"Do it again," Toby breathes.

He presses again, more firmly this time, and is rewarded by a
long, drawn-out hiss and a whimper, followed by the sharp twitch
of Toby's cock against his chin. Drawing it back into his mouth,
Chris resumes sucking in earnest even while he continues his 
massage from within. Toby is mindless now, his body stretched 
taut and straining, and once more Chris struggles to contain 
his own need.

A moment later Toby comes, spilling into Chris's mouth with a 
deep, gutteral growl of gratification, and for the first time,
Chris has no defenses, nothing to protect him from the way this
feels. The sound, the sight, the taste, of *Toby*... it all flows 
together in an tidal wave of sensory feedback, leaving Chris 
stunned, shattered, and scrambling to take it all in. 
 

continued in part three