Lavender & Gold - 3. The Longest Week

CHAPTER THREE

The Longest Week

When he awoke just before eight o’clock the next morning, Ben found a note on the pillow next to his.

Had to go to work. Talk later. x

Ben picked the note up, frowning. Then he heard the shower start in the bathroom and smiled.

He got out of bed and padded naked over to the bathroom door. He tested the handle and, finding the door unlocked, quietly slipped inside.

Ben could see the shadow of Mark’s slim frame through the shower curtain. He snuck up and pulled the curtain aside, stepping into the shower behind him.

From this vantage point, Ben had a good view of the tattoos he had barely had time to register the night before. Curved lines that snaked out across Mark’s shoulder blades and upper arms, forming patterns, not quite tribal, not quite celtic, just organic, somehow. Here, the pattern formed something like a skull, there a butterfly, but only when looked at from a certain angle.

‘Thought you could just sneak out, did you?’ he murmured, slipping his arms around Mark’s waist. Mark jumped a little.

‘Jesus! Sneak up on a bloke, why don’t you?’ he said. ‘Sorry. Didn’t want to wake you. And I really do have—ah!—work . . .’

Ben had run his hand up Mark’s chest, brushing his nipple with his fingers, causing it to stiffen. ‘Where do you work?’ he asked softly, squeezing the nipple. His lips brushed the back of Mark’s neck as he spoke.

‘Café . . . in Camden,’ said Mark breathlessly. ‘Just temporarily . . . filling in for a friend.’

‘When do you start?’ Ben slipped his other hand slowly down Mark’s stomach.

‘Ah . . .’ Mark gasped. ‘Er, at nine.’

‘Plenty of time,’ said Ben huskily. ‘This doesn’t have to take long.’

‘But—oh fuck—tube takes a while during rush hour.’

‘I’ll give you money for a cab,’ Ben insisted.

Mark scoffed. ‘How would that look, me arriving in a cab?’

‘I don’t care.’ Ben took Mark in his hand, and the other arched his back against him. ‘Let me do this for you. I can feel how much you want it.’

‘Likewise,’ Mark groaned. He tried to reach behind him, but Ben pushed his hand away.

‘No,’ he said. ‘This is about you. I can take care of myself after you’ve gone.’

Mark whimpered. ‘I don’t think you understand how hot the idea of you getting yourself off is to me . . .’

Ben chuckled, his voice morning deep, and he felt a shudder go through Mark. ‘Go ahead. Think about it,’ he murmured in Mark’s ear. ‘Think about me pleasuring myself while thinking of you. And then think about how, the next time we’re together, I’m going to take care of you. I’m going to spoil you. You won’t have to lift a finger, just lie there and take it. And then I’ll have you, slowly, until you scream.’

Mark threw back his head as he came, crying out through gritted teeth. Ben held him as he rode it out, drawing ragged breaths. Mark turned around, putting his arms around Ben and kissing him deeply. Then he buried his face in Ben’s shoulder.

‘I should go,’ he mumbled.

‘Yeah,’ said Ben, stroking his hair.

‘When’s your next night off?’ asked Mark, looking up at him. He didn’t ask when he could see him again, simply assuming that it would be the next time Ben was free. That made Ben smile. And of course he was right.

‘Monday,’ said Ben.

‘You don’t get much free time, do you?’

Ben shook his head. ‘Six shows per week, Monday nights off.’ He kissed Mark softly. ‘Now, get out of here, go make some money.’

Mark nodded. ‘Don’t work too hard,’ he said. ‘I’ll call you.’

‘Not if I call you first,’ said Ben, smiling.

* * *

He felt somewhat like a school boy. Monday could not come fast enough, and Ben spent every waking moment when he wasn’t acting with his mind wholly occupied by the boy with the ever changing hair colour. The texts came every day now, and Ben sent as many as he received. They spoke on the phone a few times, too.

When the week was up, Mark texted the words, Coming over. That okay?

And all Ben could think to respond was, Yes.

They dispensed with no words, on each other almost the second the front door was shut. They didn’t make it to the bedroom. They didn’t even make it out of the hall. They barely had time to get their pants down. Ben crowded Mark against the wall, kissing him deeply, and by mutual, silent consensus they got off like teenagers. It only took a couple of minutes, and then they were panting against the wall, their stomachs covered in semen.

Mark cleared his throat. ‘Well,’ he said breathlessly. ‘That’s a way to say hello.’

Ben laughed. ‘Sorry,’ he murmured. ‘Not really how I meant to . . . God, I’ve missed you!’

‘I’ve missed you too,’ Mark mumbled, smiling crookedly. ‘Erm . . . We should get cleaned up.’

‘Yeah.’

‘We could . . . take a shower?’

Ben smiled. ‘Sure. But I don’t think I’ll be fully recharged for a while.’

‘Dirty old man!’ Mark chided him with a smirk. ‘Who said anything about that?’

They showered together, washing each other’s backs, and Ben was struck by how normal and natural it all felt. He traced the winding patterns of Mark’s tattoos with his finger tips. ‘What do they mean?’ he asked.

‘The tattoos?’ Mark shrugged his shoulders. ‘Does everything have to mean something? I have friends whose tattoos symbolise the year they got their lives turned around, or their families, or dead loved ones, or the deep, dark torment of their souls!’ He enunciated the last part theatrically and wiggled his fingers in the air. ‘I just wanted something that looked nice and that wasn’t quite like what anyone else had and that was . . . me.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Ben. ‘I considered tattoos when I was in my teens, but it’s lucky I never went for it. They’re a pain to cover up when you’re acting.’

The blue of Mark’s hair was fading now, the lather of the shampoo taking on a slightly turquoise tint as Ben massaged his scalp.

‘Doesn’t hold very well, this dye,’ he commented.

‘Hard to find colours like this that do,’ Mark replied with a shrug. ‘Most wash out within a couple of weeks. Longer if you bleach first, but my hair is pretty light to begin with and bleach is so icky. . .’

Ben chuckled. ‘That why you change it so often?’

‘I like change,’ said Mark. ‘Change keeps things interesting. I get bored easily.’

Ben chewed his lip, absently. Like the cursing and the nerves, it was a habit he had long since broken, but somehow broken habits seemed to go unbroken when he was around Mark. He hesitated before saying, ‘Think you’ll grow bored of me?’

Mark turned to face him, grinning. ‘Not bloody likely!’ he laughed. ‘You’re not getting rid of me that easy, mister.’ He stood on tip-toe and leaned in for a kiss. Ben returned it, hungrily. He could feel his arousal returning. That was quick.

‘Rinse the shampoo out,’ he murmured. ‘I want you in my bed in ten minutes.’

‘Why, Mr. Connor, I like it when you take charge!’ said Mark with a grin.

Ben stepped out of the shower and towelled off quickly. Then he went out into the bedroom, checked the nightstand for condoms and lube, straightened the bedding and, after some internal debate, lit a couple of candles.

He felt nervous again, like a teenager preparing for his first time. What was it about Mark that made him feel so . . . naked?

Then the door to the bathroom opened, and Ben forgot to feel insecure. There stood Mark, hair dripping, stark naked and slightly damp, and Ben thought, not for the first time, that Mark wasn’t really beautiful, but something about him made him drop-dead gorgeous anyway.

Mark stepped over to the bed, eyes never leaving Ben’s, and sat down. He scooted up into the middle of the bed and lay back, licking his lips.

Ben crawled onto the bed on hands and knees, until he was positioned above Mark, legs astride his middle. He brushed a strand of wet, blue hair away from Mark’s forehead and leaned down to kiss him softly.

‘Remember what I promised you?’ he whispered. Mark nodded, slowly. ‘Tell me.’

‘You said you’d,’ Mark cleared his throat, ‘take care of me. That I’d just have to lie there and take it.’

‘Good,’ Ben murmured. ‘Well remembered.’

* * *

Mark was remarkably responsive. Everything Ben did elicited a moan or a whimper, a clenching of the fist, a biting of the lip. His nipples were especially sensitive, and Ben amused himself for a good long while simply squeezing, sucking, biting and blowing at them to see how Mark reacted.

His cock was sensitive, too, twitching at the slightest provocation. Ben only devoted a few minutes to it, lest he cut their amusement short.

Mark’s arse was what Ben had been most nervous about. The previous week, Mark had more or less prepped himself. Ben very much wanted to know what manner of response he could extract from Mark with his fingers and tongue there, but still hesitated when he got there.

‘You . . . you don’t have to . . . ’ Mark murmured. ‘We can just . . .’

‘I want to,’ Ben interrupted, looking up at him. ‘God, you’re so gorgeous . . .’

Mark laughed.

‘I mean it!’ Ben said, firmly. ‘Every part of you. So fucking gorgeous, and I just want to know what I can do to you, want to see how I can make you feel . . .’ And with that, he bent his head, letting his tongue get to work.

The effect was remarkable. Mark moaned and cursed and writhed, toes curling. He was just as sensitive there as everywhere else. When Ben was satisfied with his results, he sat up, reached over Mark and pulled a bottle of lube from the nightstand, squeezing some out onto his finger.

It didn’t take much coaxing for Mark to open up for him. Nor did it take much digging for Ben to find what he was looking for.

‘Nguh!’ Mark groaned. ‘Oh fuck, fuck shit fuck!’

‘I take it that’s good?’ asked Ben with a smirk and a cocked eyebrow.

‘It’s . . . yeah, very good. Very, very . . . ah!’ Mark’s eyes sprung wide open. ‘Oh, fuck!’ he gasped.

‘Hasn’t anyone ever done this to you before?’ Ben asked curiously.

‘Not . . . not like this,’ Mark replied breathlessly. ‘Guess I’ve always. . . always been the giving type, you know? With foreplay and oh, fucking hell, how do you even know how to do this?’

Ben shrugged. ‘It’s not so different,’ he said. ‘Find the spot that makes your partner do this—’ he moved his digit a bit, and Mark gasped again, squirming and pushing back against him ‘—and court it until they can barely stand it.’

‘Gah!’ said Mark.

‘More?’

Mark nodded, his eyes squeezed shut again, and Ben inserted another finger, stretching his opening. Mark threw back his head, cursing loudly again.

‘Good?’ asked Ben.

Mark could do nothing but nod. When he opened his eyes, his pupils were dilated so far his eyes looked almost completely black.

‘Need . . . you!’ he moaned.

Ben smiled, and obliged.

He went slow, just as he’d promised, angling each thrust to the best of his abilities to brush Mark’s prostate before plunging deep inside. Being inside Mark, thought Ben, was like inserting oneself into a space lined with silk and velvet, soft and tight and gorgeous. Mark’s insides had roughly the texture of rose petals, if one were to fuck a rose until it quivered.

After a while, Ben had Mark turn over on hands and knees, making his thrusts harder and allowing himself to relinquish control a little bit. When Mark came in Ben’s hand, Ben came as well almost at once. He collapsed on top of him, kissing both his shoulder blades softly; first the skull, then a shape that Ben interpreted as a swallow.

‘You okay?’ he asked. Mark pulled a few shuddering breaths before answering.

‘I’m so fucking okay I can’t put into words how okay I am.’ He uttered a breathless laugh. ‘Blimey, Ben . . . That was . . . God, that was one of the most intense experiences of my life!’

Ben felt stupidly proud at hearing this. Somewhere in the back of his brain, a small voice had the presence of mind to ask why he didn’t feel as proud of his accomplishments on stage as he did of fucking a skinny, albeit gorgeous, Camden punk into oblivion, but he ignored it.

He made to pull out, but Mark stopped him.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Stay in there for a little while. I just . . . I like feeling you in there.’

So Ben took his hand instead, and kissed his knuckles, one at a time. Then Mark’s stomach made a grumbly noise.

‘Hungry?’ asked Ben.

‘Yeah.’ Mark sounded surprised. ‘Guess I am . . . Haven’t really eaten much today.’

Ben snorted. ‘Idiot,’ he murmured fondly. ‘No wonder you’re such a skinny bastard . . . I’ll order us some Thai. That okay with you?’

‘Mm,’ said Mark. He winced slightly as Ben pulled out.

‘Just stay there,’ said Ben. ‘I’ll fetch some tissues.’ He returned with a pack of Kleenex and the menu for the local Thai take-away, handing both to Mark. ‘The Tom Yum soup is gorgeous,’ he said. ‘Also, the chilli and lemongrass beef is really good, and the Satay chicken.’

‘Well, I’m a sucker for good Satay,’ said Mark, sitting up and cleaning himself off. ‘Shit, you’ve got cum stains on the bedspread now,’ he added.

Ben shrugged. ‘It’s washable.’

Mark looked at him, head cocked slightly to one side. ‘Are you really okay with all this?’

‘The Thai food or the cum stains?’ asked Ben.

‘You know what I’m talking about,’ said Mark seriously.

Ben sighed. ‘Yes. But you’re the one who said we shouldn’t dwell on it, remember?’

‘I did,’ Mark acknowledged with a slight nod. ‘I haven’t been very good at following my own advice, though.’

‘Yeah, nor have I.’

‘I have feelings for you.’

‘I know,’ said Ben. ‘I have feelings for you too.’

Mark lay down on his back, pillowing his head on his arms. ‘So, where does that leave us?’

Ben shook his head, looking away. ‘I don’t know. I have no desire to shag anyone but you.’

‘Me neither.’

‘So.’

‘So . . .’

Ben glanced at him. ‘I don’t even know your last name.’

‘Harrison,’ said Mark.

‘Right.’

There was a pause.

‘Do you think it would be all right,’ asked Ben, ‘Mark Harrison, if, for the purpose of sexual contact, I thought of you as mine?’

Mark chuckled. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I think that would be . . . acceptable.’

‘Good.’

‘Good.’

‘Let’s order some food.’

‘Let’s.’

* * *

‘Favourite band?’

‘Pink Floyd.’

‘Really?’ Mark propped himself up on his elbow, looking down at Ben’s face. ‘I would have thought you’d be into, like . . . I dunno. Something older. Like Duke Ellington or something.’

Ben stared incredulously at him. ‘How ancient do you think I am?’

Mark laughed.

‘What about you?’ Ben countered. ‘What’s your favourite band?’

Mark seemed to consider for a moment. ’Chumbawamba.’

‘That sounds . . . familiar,’ said Ben.

‘You’d probably know them for Tubthumping,’ said Mark, ‘you know—I get knocked down, but I get up again!—but that song is kind of atypical for them. They played lots of different stuff, but I like their folky stuff best. That and Give the Anarchist a Cigarette—feels like my theme song. Then, when they’d played together for thirty years, they were like, “let’s quit while we’re ahead”, played three shows, the last of which was at some syndicalist youth house in Norway, of all places, chucked in the towel and called it a day.’

Ben chuckled. ‘You’ll have to play me their music some time.’

‘Favourite movie, then?’ Mark inquired.

‘Ooh, tough one . . .’ Ben gave it a moment’s thought. ‘It varies with my mood, but . . . Probably Close Encounters of the Third Kind.’

Mark expelled a surprised giggle. ‘Isn’t that sort of cheesy?’

‘What, because I’m an actor I’m only allowed to like weird art films? Would you be more comfortable if I had said I loved the work of Stanley Kubrick or Lars Von Trier? I’ll have you know, Stephen Spielberg is a great man.’ Mark laughed and Ben smiled at him. ‘I admit I have a soft spot Quentin Tarantino as well,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘And Peter Jackson.’ He ruffled Mark’s hair. ‘What about you?’

Mark looked away, cheeks flushing slightly. He mumbled something incoherent.

‘What was that?’ asked Ben.

Mark looked at him again, defiantly. ‘Singularity Sky,’ he said.

‘Oh.’ It was Ben’s turn to feel embarrassed.

‘It’s your best work,’ said Mark simply, shrugging. ‘Though I should probably tell you I never actually paid to see it . . . I sort of pirated it.’

Ben smiled earnestly. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Not for the piracy, just for—’

Mark leaned down and placed his lips on Ben’s, kissing him slowly and lazily, and in spite of the three times he’d already gotten off that night, Ben felt the arousal begin in the pit of his stomach. He put his arms around Mark, pulling him down on top of him, and kissed him back. Mark began to move against him almost immediately, eliciting further response.

‘You’re just insatiable, aren’t you?’ Ben murmured as they broke lip contact. ‘Aren’t you—ah!—getting sore?’

‘Don’t care,’ said Mark breathlessly. ‘It’ll be a whole week until next time, right? I just need to. . . stock up on you while I can.’

As it turned out, however, Mark was getting too sore, and they had to make do with their hands. Not that Ben was complaining. Mark’s face when he came, his eyes, his voice, they were just as beautiful no matter how he got there.

They fell asleep, exhausted, in each other’s arms.