But just as quickly as he reached this conclusion, he came to another one, one that he stuck by to this day: it doesn’t matter.

His feelings, thick and warm as a used sleeping bag, refuse to go neatly back into their sleeve. So on any given day when they're together (which, when aren’t they?) his emotions get the better of him and lead him to do things that toe the line.

Like that kiss, he thinks to himself, pointer fingers circling around and over his slit now leaking precum. he thinks about the kiss every day, especially before falling to sleep in the warm embrace of his friend and only love.

Since realizing his feelings, whenever he's alone to pleasure himself, he thinks about his friend sucking him off, gagging around his girth before swallowing every pent up drop he shoots down His warm throat. Or he imagines using their slickness mixed with lube to widen his friend’s asshole, fingers spreading the tight warmth wider to accommodate his size.

This time is no different, but now that they’ve actually kissed, his mind imagines that they kept going that night. In his lustful daydream, he leans further into the kiss before pushing his friend down into the mattress. he lets Him think that He’s the one in control, if only to get Him hard and ready for what he plans.

Just as his mind dreams up him nibbling and sucking at his friend’s erect nipples, the sound of footsteps make the images go up in smoke. But it does not vanish his raging erection that is seconds from spurting all over his exposed stomach. his head physically aches from shock and panic, preventing him from simply reaching behind him to the blanket on the couch.

he knows when He’s stepped into the living room with the sudden tangibility in the air. Fucking shit. his hand is still on his vulnerable flesh, and he feels so close because the object of his desire and affection has caught him in such a compromising position.

“Don’t stop on my account.”