The Holy Nite (BL)

5.

Most days, waking up is a brusque transition. From deep sleep to started confusion in the span of a few beeps from my alarm clock. Today, it's a mellow process. It's like I'm taking gentle baby steps towards consciousness.

I'm pretty sure James has stayed in my arms all night. I wake up once, unused to the weight of his head on my arm, and before I went back to sleep, I was listening to his slow breathing and looking down at his serene face. He's as beautiful asleep as he is awake.

There was no alarm clock this morning, no sudden feeling of panic. James drives in my arms, that's the first sign that night is over. His hand travels from my hip, leisurely up my waist, ribcage, shoulder, then down to my chest.

I'm still only about just about wake, somewhere in sleep's no man's land. I feel his legs move a little, and I turn towards him, hugging him to me. His hard cock brushes against mine, and I let out a pleasured sigh.

A little more alert, I move against him a little more insistently. He rolls us over, so that I'm on my back and he's on top of me. I brush away his hair from his face as he rubs down against me.

I kiss his forehead and his closed eyes. I kiss the bridge of his nose, and then stop. I want him to look at me, and when the kisses cease, he does just that. I see his brown eyes up close, so close that I see speckles of green in them that I've not noticed before.

Smile at him, smile back. I raise my pelvis against his, and his smile vanishes, replaced by a surprised look accomplying his sharp intake of breath.

I have the time to think, "Oh God, I think I love him," before he jolts my existence by sneaking a hand between our bodies, catching us both in a firm grip.

I close my eyes again, throwing into his hand and against him. I notice, through a haze of comfort and arousal, that I can tell how close he is to climax just by listening to him. His initial panting, this adorable mewing noises, the gasps as he's getting close. I beat him to it, but not by long. I shudder, and suddenly it's hot, wet and sticky between us, but it's still amazing. James rests his forehead against mine, tenses for a moment, and things turn hotter, wetter and stickier still.

"Good morning" I say weakly.

"Good morning" he replies on a whisper. "And Merry Christmas."

"Oh yeah," I say with a laugh. "Christmas morning. Somehow I managed to forget."

"I don't blame you" he says, smiling, and elevators himself up a little.

He looks down at the mess between us and almost, just almost, looks a little embarrassed. "Err, I'll get a tissue. Hold on."

The heater has kicked into action during the night, and the tiny flat is comfortably heated. I watch James as he walks over to the kitchenette. He turns a corner to where I can't see him, but I can hear him tear off a bit of paper.

I hear a hushed rustling sort of sound as he presumably wipes his own stomach, then running water, then another tear of paper. He walks back into the room and he looks just as ruffled as I would've hopped that he'd look. His brown hair is all over the place, and he has that straight-out-of-bed look that I love.

"So how about a shower and then breakfast?" He asks, handing me the kitchen towel.

"Sounds brilliant," I say, wiping my stomach and chest as carefully as seems appropriate when I'm just about to shower anyway.

.

We shower together, standing in his bath. Showering with someone will never be practical, and showering with someone you fancy the socks off will always be time-consuming. I wash him, very thoroughly indeed; he does the same to me. I shampoo his hair, and I can't get enough of the way the strands of silky wet hair slides through my fingers. After a while, the bathroom is like a steam room, so he turns off the water and we step out.

We dry off with his fluffy white towels, and I get back into the clothes I lost yesterday, save a pair of boxer-briefs I bore from James. Either he does not care about getting them back, or we're going to meet again, and I prefer the last alternative.

James pulls on a pair of dark brown corduroy trousers and a white shirt, instantly rolling up the sleeves. He has the whole studious look down to perfection.

"Could you, uhm, put on your glasses for me?" I ask, feeling a little loved and embarrased that he'll realize that it would be a wet dream come true for me.

James stops what he's doing, looking at me with an amused smile.

"Why? I only ever wear that when I read," he says.

"Just want to see you wear them, is all," I say, shrugging.

He chuckles, but complies. And he is a dream in these glasses. I can't even bring myself to smile about it, I just look at him helpingly as I'm propelling back to fully-fledged arousal.

"You're such an oddball, Matt," he says, laughing.

"Sorry," I say sheepishly. "You're just so hot like that. You look like your brain is full of complicated theories, but we all know that beneath that well-behaved surface—"

"Yeah!"

He laughs and kisses me. When he pulls away, I make a pathic little noise of loss.

"Sorry, I can only satisfy one need at the time," he says, moving toward the kitchenette, "and right now, that need is the need for breakfast. Any funny eating habits I should know about?"

"I like my toast with a little frog on the side?" He gives me a pointed look, but I see the smile tugging at his beautiful, beautiful lips. "Fines. None. I'll eat anything."

He puts on a CD with Christmas Carols before he goes to the kitchenette. I stand leaning against the kitchenette doorway, watching him fry bacon and eggs, make toast and (God bless him!) coffees.

Once everything is done, I help him carry it to a tiny little table in the room. He moves the towers of books away from one of the chairs, and takes the other one from its place by his desk and put them by the table. His flat is surprisingly functional, considering how it's both very small and overflowing with books.

We make casual conversation whilst we eat; I ask him what he's doing apart from taking evening-classes in Latin (he's doing his final year of an Ancient History degree), I ask him how old he is (21), where he's from (he's "native Leicester," he says, and I guess I should've figured that one out since he's here over Christmas… Then again, I'm from Oxford and I'm stuck in Leicester over Christmas).

"So, uh, anyway, how would you feel about hooking up again tonight?" He asks when we've finished eating and are drinking our coffee. "Once I've fulfilled my family duties and you've fulfilled your, uh.landlord duties."

"I'd love to," I say.

I try to hold back the smile, since I'm still pretending that I have a sulky, hard-to-get, silent type image to protect, but I fail. I beam at him like a child at Christmas. Ha-has.

"Brilliant!" He beams back at me. "So... I don't know, eight, nine? You think you'll be done by then?"

"I'm sure I will," I reply. "If I'm not, I'll leave anyway."

.

I leave James's place by one. Well, I try to leave. He walks me to the door, and when I'm standing there with my hand on the doorknob, he kisses me. I let it get to me, let it pull me in and stop me from doing anything useful at all.

"I really need to get going," I mumble against his lips, but I'm not convincing anyone.

"So go then" he says, hand sneaking down to my high. I'm bursting.

"I'm…"

I lean back against the front door, forcing myself to pull away from his lips. He gives me that saint/Devil smile (emphasis on Devil) I recognize from last night. He lets his hand slide up the inside of my high until he gently cups me.

My eyes roll back in my head, and I get that hollow, burning hot yet freezing cold feeling of absolute horniness. I feel James getting closer to me, and I realize too late that he's opening the front door and almost falling out.

"See you tonnage, lover boy," he says, grinning.

"Yeah.." I mutter. "See you."

The door closes to his flat and I stand outside it for a few moments, composing myself. Buttoning my coat, I walk down the stairs and get out. It's still cold like it was last night, colder than it has been for many weeks.

I look around, trying to assess my general whereabouts. I know I'm in the vicinity of Victoria Park, but for someone who's as new to this city as I am, that's not enough information. Seeing a taxi driving down the street, I decided that if I'm ever going to get back to the Sunders in time for Christmas dinner, I'll bloody well better get it.

My taxi driver is a middle-aged Sikh block with a big turban, who spends the 15-minute journey back to the Sunders talking to me about Christmas traditions and seeing to feel very sorry for me when I tell him how my parents abandoned me to go egypt to.

I tell him that it turned out to be a pretty good thing after all, though I don't tell him about James.

Obviously.

There's a limit to how much information one wants to share with taxi drivers – even if my budding affair with James makes me want to shut from the rooftops about how beautiful he is.

.........