One Last "Once More" - 1. Chapter 1

The caller ID let him know he shouldn’t answer the phone. He knew those numbers, and there was only one reason Trent would be calling him now, when he knew Sara was away. Now, at ten o’clock at night.

It was a bad idea to answer. The best course of action was to leave the room. Go to the bathroom and turn on the fucking shower so he wouldn’t have to hear the voice, when it came, over the answering machine. He couldn’t stay and he couldn’t answer the phone, because the second he heard that voice—heard the flirtatious smile, even over the phone—he’d be done. He’d go running over, because he’d forgotten how to say no one…two…seven months ago. He couldn’t answer the phone. Not again. Not this time.

“Hello?” he said, picking up just before the machine did.

“Mason?” Trent replied, voice as low and smooth as it always was when he made one of these calls.

“Yeah,” he said, sighing. “It’s me.”

Silence from Trent’s end, but that was nothing new. It always took him a minute to figure out how he was going to phrase his invitation, but he needn’t have bothered. Mason could play at hesitating all he wanted to, but he knew his answer the second Trent had spoken his name, and maybe even before that.

“I’m drinking,” Trent said, and Mason chewed his lip as he waited. “…and drinking alone is pathetic. Come over.”

No. “It’s late,” Mason replied, fingering his car keys, fighting the urge to pick them up and walk out the door, phone in hand. He couldn’t keep doing this.

“That would be the point,” Trent’s reply was almost a whisper. Soft, and low and Mason shivered at the sound, flashing back to the last he heard that whisper, standing in Trent’s kitchen, pressed against the refrigerator when Trent ambushed him from behind. I want you, he’d said and Mason forgot which parts of his anatomy were used for breathing.

“Alright,” Mason said, closing his eyes, the same time his fingers closed around the keys on the counter. “Twenty minutes.”

“Yeah,” Trent replied, and the playful tone he used to hook Mason was gone, replaced by the relieved, needy tone he could never seem to hide when Mason inevitably said yes. “I know.”

The line went dead, and Mason didn’t move until the phone started beeping loudly, harshly in his ear, and even then, he only moved to turn the phone off and set it down on the kitchen counter. He stood there, in the silent room listening to the hum of the refrigerator, trying to talk himself out of it. Sara—she’d done nothing wrong, and she was perfect, so perfect for him. He loved her, and she was enough. More than enough.

She should have been, anyway. But she wasn’t.

The florescent lights in the kitchen flickered, as the thunder from the storm outside shook the house and Mason took one last look around, to make sure everything was in place. It was an odd, paranoid habit he had, like leaving one thing out of place might let Sara know. But there was nothing. Nothing out of place. Sara had only been gone a few hours and she’d cleaned everything before she left, while she was stressing about her presentation. She was a compulsive cleaner and she’d cleaned everything in that house, scrubbing the appliances until they started to look dull and worn down, and spraying everything until the whole place smelled of Lysol and Windex and nothing. Sterile as a hospital and Mason hadn’t had a chance to mess anything up before the phone rang. The phone, actually, was the only thing out of its assigned place and he set that back down on the charger, before he grabbed his jacket and went out to the car.

The drive to Trent’s apartment takes less than ten minutes if you stick to the main roads and go straight there. But Mason never did. He drove the back way. Not because he thought someone might see him—if anyone did, his visit could be easily explained away, he’d known Trent for years. No one would bother to ask what he was doing there, even if they did see him. Trent was a friend. Or he had been, before Mason had fucked up and given in. Nevertheless, no one would question it, and that’s not why he took the back way. He took the back way, hoping every time that the extra five minutes would be enough time to get him to come to his senses. It never was.

Trent was outside his apartment when Mason finally pulled up, fumbling with a bag and his keys, and drenched with rain.

“What are you doing?” Mason asked, pulling his jacket tighter around him as he stepped up. He grabbed the keys from Trent and opened the door for him. “Where’d you go?”

“Liquor store,” Trent replied shrugging. “When I said I was drinking…” he shrugged, walking into the kitchen to drop the bags, glass bottles clinking dangerously as he did. “I thought it might be good to have some actual drinks to back that up, but you got here sooner than I thought. So, I guess I’m caught.”

Mason grinned. “You could have just said you’d run out.”

“I’m a lightweight,” Trent replied, rolling his eyes. “You’d never have believed me.”

Mason laughed, shutting and locking the front door before he joined Trent in the kitchen. It was so easy to be there, once he stepped inside. Never hard, or awkward. Comfortable. Too comfortable, because every time, the second he stepped into the apartment, talking himself out of being there wasn’t the problem anymore. The problem was that he had an extremely difficult time of talking himself into leaving. He always did…but it was getting harder.

“Smells like pizza,” he said, hopping up onto a counter. “Where is it? I’m starving.”

“I figured,” Trent said, smiling. “I ordered some before I called. It’s in the oven.” He pointed, like he expected Mason to get it and then moved to grab it himself. “You eat too much,” he added handing him the box.

Mason shrugged, unapologetically. “I just finished—,”

“Working out,” Trent finished with him. “I know.”

“Yeah?” Mason raised an eyebrow. “How’s that?”

“It’s Friday night,” Trent replied simply. “And you’re predictable. I bet you hopped on the treadmill less than fifteen minutes after Sara left.”

“I waited at least thirty,” Mason corrected him, biting into a slice of pizza. “I finished watching the game first.”

Trent rolled his eyes and muttered, “Predictable,” as he grabbed a glass from one of his cupboards. “Drink?” he asked, without looking up.

“Yeah,” Mason replied through a mouthful of pizza. “Why’d you buy so much?”

“It’s not all alcohol,” Trent said. “I bought cranberry juice, orange juice, coke, and milk too.” He frowned. “I wasn’t sure what I was in the mood for.”

“And?” Mason said grinning.

“And I think I want a beer,” Trent said, flatly as he shook his head and glared at the bottles on the counter.

Mason laughed and dropped the remainder of his second slice of pizza back in the box as he hopped off the counter. “Did you buy some?”

“Yeah, for you,” Trent replied, frowning for a second longer before he shrugged. He sighed. “Well…it’s not like any of it’ll go bad. And I needed milk anyway.” He grabbed a beer and moved over to the door to the bathroom to pop the top off.

Mason rolled his eyes and made a mental not to bring a bottle opener the next time he came over, but he grabbed a bottle from the case on the counter and moved to open his on the door frame right after Trent.

It was like this every time. They both knew why Mason was there. Why Trent invited him, but they always played this scene first. They always behaved like nothing had changed. Just two friends getting together for a drink, like they’d always been.

This night, they talked, about meaningless work-a-day bullshit, without ever once mentioning Sara, because that was one thing that was different now. Sara’s name was off limits. If Mason needed to mention her to tell a story, he said ‘she’ or, more often than not, avoided that story altogether. And Trent never asked.

The alcohol flowed until Mason was pleasantly buzzed, a soft cloud of nothing settling gently over his mind. His body was warm, next to the fire in Mason’s living room, and he leaned his head back against the couch and closed his eyes. Just for a moment. To give his heavy eyelids a break.

It was Trent’s scent, more than anything else that let Mason know he was there. The barest hint of aftershave, far overshadowed by the scent of alcohol, and Mason swallowed, keeping his eyes shut tight. And then he felt Trent’s breath, warm and damp flit lightly over his cheek. His heart beat just a little faster in his chest and he told himself, one last time to stop it, to pull away before it happened again, like the last time, and the time before that.

But he didn’t pull away. He didn’t try to stop it. Instead, he tilted his head back, leaning up to where he guessed Trent’s mouth was until he felt Trent’s smooth, slightly wet lips against his, and his body quaked when Trent groaned into it.

He felt fingers play against the side of his neck, starting low near his shoulder, and moving up to cup the back of his head.

“I want you.” Whispered into the kiss, tickling Mason’s upper lip. Trent moved one of the hands cupping Mason’s head, down to his chest, pressing to keep himself steady as he moved over him, one knee on each side of Mason’s legs, and then heat as he settled in against the man beneath him.

Mason moaned at the contact, shivering as he resisted the urge to grind up against the body on top of him, but he didn’t have to. Trent moved, his hips grinding down against Mason’s and the feel of his jeans against his cock, hard already despite the alcohol, was course and cruel and good, so good, and fuck resistance because it wasn’t enough pressure. Not nearly enough.

Mason, remembering that he had hands and they were good for more than grasping the sofa beneath him, lifted them, running them over sharp knees and strong thighs. It never ceased to amaze him, how good Trent’s body felt against his own. Trent was all sharp angles, and hard bones. No fat, and hardly any muscle, and it should have been uncomfortable having his knees digging into Mason’s sides. It should have been painful.

But it wasn’t. Mason’s fingers dug into the man’s hips and pulled him closer, tighter against him.

Trent broke away from his mouth, head falling forward until his forehead rested against Mason’s as he breathed deeply, composing himself, and this—just this—should never be so good.

“I want you,” Trent whispered again, his hips grinding into Mason’s steadily. Rhythmically. Mason licked his lips once, then twice, and then a third time before he started moving beneath him. With him. Harder, Quicker. More.

Stop.

Trent backed off, grasping the hem of his own shirt as he did, pulling it over his head, and this…this far in, where rational thought was damn near impossible—this was where Mason hesitated. This was where he thought of Sara and her ring. His ring on her finger. This was where he thought of pregnancy test after pregnancy test and the fear he felt while he watch Sara go from excited to disappointed every time.

Right here, when Trent was undressing in front of him, the light of the fire casting shadows on his smooth, pale skin, here and there and…there and he looked good, so good, but here is where Mason hesitated. Every time.

“Don’t,” Trent whispered over the sound of the zipper of his jeans, and then those were gone, taking the boxers with them down over sharp, lean hips, smooth hard cock jutting up towards his belly button. Down further over lightly muscled thighs, and sparsely haired calves. Toeing off socks, kicking the jeans away, and Mason felt the groan in his chest, itching, clawing its way up his throat.

“Don’t,” Trent whispered again dropping to his knees in front of Mason, slowly. Fluidly. “Don’t bring her here. And don’t leave.”

His fingertips crawled up Mason’s thighs. Teasing. Tickling. He felt one of Trent’s hands cup his cock and Mason’s hips left the sofa against his will, seeking contact. His fingers grasped the cushions beneath him again; seeking purchase as Trent’s other hand deftly undid his button. Fly. And he was lifting his hips without being asked, so Trent could pull them down, and lifting his shirt over his head, and then his beater.

Mason shivered as the air in the room, however warm, hit his bare skin. Shuddered harder still, as Trent spread his legs, moving forward on his knees, until he was between Mason’s legs.

Mason shut his eyes, tighter still, body tensed in anticipation of what he knew was coming next. The muscles in his arms almost hurt with his grip on the cushions and his chest was tight, and if Trent didn’t do it—do it now—breathing was going to become an issue.

“Open your eyes,” Trent commanded just as the fire behind him crackled. Mason complied almost immediately looking down into Trent’s, glazed over with lust, and something else…something Mason couldn’t quite put his finger on.

Trent sighed. “I want you…” he paused, swallowing. “I want you here. With me.”

That didn’t make much sense at all, because Mason was there, naked as the day he was born and he couldn’t see how his eyes, open or not, changed that in anyway, but he kept them open. Watched as Trent moved in, looking up at him all the while. He was moving slow—so slow, Mason wondered if maybe he was imagining it. If maybe the beers he’d had, affected him more than he though, and Trent wasn’t moving at all.

But then—God—there it was. Contact. The warm, wet heat…scalding heat of Trent’s tongue against his cock, one smooth, strong lick from the base to the tip, pressing his cock into his stomach. Trent’s hand grasping the base of his length, pulling it forward and then Trent’s tongue swirling sloppy around the head, tonguing his slit. Mason’s thighs clenched, his feet digging into the floor, toes curling in the carpet.

Soft teasing licks, followed by harder, firmer, torturous swipes of Trent’s tongue and Mason’s head lolled from side to side on the back of the couch. Keeping his eyes open at this point was an impossibility but Trent didn’t seem to mind.

He bit his tongue, accidentally, and hard enough to have the faintest taste of metal in his mouth when Trent took the head of Mason’s cock into his mouth and sucked. Mason’s stomach clenched as he arched, his back digging into the couch as he leaned forward and he caught one glimpse of hollow cheeks, the hand grasping his cock moving up to meet the lips wrapped around it, and blond hair following into Trent’s closed eyes as he took more of Mason’s length, and then Mason was falling back, writhing on the sofa, blissfully incapable of doing anything else.

Mason breathed deeply—heavily—mouth opening and closing repeatedly as he fought in van to keep it closed, to keep the sighs and moans at bay.

He gasped as he felt Trent’s teeth graze over the underside of his cock, briefly, and more shocking than it was painful, and what pain that was there was quickly forgotten as Trent took him deeper, and the pulled off, sucking harder on the upstroke, ripping the groan Mason was trying so hard to hold back right from his chest.

His fingers left the couch cushion, seeking purchase in Trent’s hair, all reticence forgotten and he gripped so hard he feared he might rip some of Trent’s hair out, but Trent worked him harder. Quicker. Down, and then—God—up again, over and over until one groan became two, then three, and more until he wasn’t sure where one ended and the next began.

His body was tensing, further than it was before. Tighter. His breathing came quicker, harder, almost painfully, because he was—there—almost there. His fingers dug into Trent’s scalp, and Trent moaned like it was good, and he was rutting against the air in front of Mason’s shin, seeking contact, and never finding it. Something in Mason’s stomach curled and twisted and—More…just a little more…

And then, nothing. Nothing but a shock of air, cold against his wet cock, even in the warm room, as Trent pulled off.

“Not yet,” he said, his voice shaking. “I want…”

Mason shook his head rapidly, the words falling out of his mouth without thought. “I won’t last. Not like this. I’m…Christ, Trent…” He reached out blindly for him, desperate to pull him back in. Have him continue. Finish it.

His fingers fell on nothing but air, and he opened his eyes to see Trent fumbling with his jeans, reaching into the pocket, and pulling out a single condom. And lube a second later.

“You will,” Trent finally replied. “I want…” he swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, as he closed his eyes and crawled forward. “I’m fucking you.”

Mason nodded, chewing his lower lip as he watched the muscles in Trent’s back as he crawled toward him, moving lithely under skin, over bones.

He lied down on the sofa, moving back to make room for Trent, and Trent moved into the space quickly, trapping Mason between his body and the back of the couch. His hand grasped Mason’s hip, long fingers digging in almost painfully, before he slid his hand down and around to cup Mason’s ass. To pull him closer. He slid his other arm under Mason’s neck, bending at the elbow to run fingers over Mason’s shoulder blades, caging Mason in between his arms—between his body and the couch.

But it wasn’t until Mason caught Trent’s eyes that he felt trapped. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away from the intense gaze, but he needed to. He couldn’t handle this part. This part where his heart tried to pound its way out of his chest, and his lungs felt like they were disappearing. He couldn’t handle all the fucking feeling in those eyes, and he hated knowing that he couldn’t hide. He hated understanding the feeling behind those eyes, and he hated that the reason he understood was because he felt it too. In the sick twisting of his stomach when he thought about leaving, which was inevitable. In the warm buzzing of his skin every time Trent came close. Every time Trent shot him a look across the dinner table while Sara was talking on, oblivious to their silent communication. He felt it. He knew and he understood it and it was good, so fucking good, but painful too.

Because he could have this. He could. Trent made it obvious. He could have this and more whenever he wanted…

But he couldn’t let himself keep it. They both knew that, and it was painful. Twisting, wrenching, ripping pain, all through his chest. And he had to ignore it. Commitments had been made, and it wasn’t fair. Even this…this would have to stop.

Mason felt Trent’s arms tightening around him, and saw…yes, there just below his cheek bones, a tear, and he forgot about holding back, and held on, because Trent would hate that. The crying. He’d hate that he’d let that tear fall. He’d hate so much that Mason doubted he’d call for awhile after this.

Trent always played the part so well. He laughed, and made suggestive remarks while Sara was in ear shot. He made it a game. He made it funny, and acted like he didn’t give a shit, outside of this apartment, when others were around, and even when they weren’t. He put on a pretty good act, so good, it’d taken Mason months to be able to see past it. Months to start paying attention when Trent didn’t think he was looking, but he knew now. And Trent’s moments—moments like these where Trent stopped the act, if only for a few seconds—were happening more frequently.

It was terrifying. And this was going to end. Soon.

But not tonight.

He licked his lips, dry from all the panting he’d been doing, and leaned in to kiss Trent, just the soft press of lips, sliding wetly against one another’s. Trent took a deep breath through his nose, and gripped tighter, moving up on his elbow, to move over, on top of Mason. He was moving quickly…desperately in harsh contrast to how calm he’d been just a moment before.

Mason sighed against Trent’s lips, moving toward the center of the sofa on his back, legs tangling with Trent’s as they settled in. Trent’s lips tasted like salty sweat, or tears, and stale cigarettes and cheap beer. And guilt. If guilt had a taste, Mason imagined that’s what it would taste like.

Trent pulled away, sitting up, kneeling between Mason’s legs, and Mason closed his eyes, focusing on steadying his breathing. He’d calmed down in the moments he’d been lying there, holding Trent, but not much. He was still painfully hard, and he wondered vaguely—crazily—what color his balls were.

He barely heard the sound of cellophane tearing over the crackle of the fire as Trent ripped the condom open, he didn’t hear anything from the lube…didn’t even know Trent had gotten to that yet until Trent had hands behind his knees pushing them up, towards his chest. The back of his thighs burned as they stretched, and then there was the shock of cool, lubed fingers against his entrance. Pressing, and releasing. Pressure and then soft fingers circling. Tickling. He jumped when he felt Trent’s fingernail, gliding over him. Pleasure when fingers moved up, right behind his balls to press at his perineum, and up further, to touch his balls…his cock…and then back down. Teasing. Playing.

He gasped when he felt the tip of the first finger enter him, but it wasn’t painful. Shocking was more like it, and only slightly uncomfortable. Trent twisted his finger—just the one, pushing in deeper, and deeper still, until Mason felt the knuckles of his remaining fingers against his ass. And then he pulled out. In again, and out, and Mason was moving back against him, deep sporadic, breaths, and uneven sighs were all that pierced the silence of the room, save the popping of the fire.

Another finger and it was tighter, pinching slightly. It’d been awhile since this, Mason was much more used to being on the other side of this scene, but it wasn’t unpleasant. He bit his lower lip, pressing back, bearing down on fingers that were moving too slow, and he didn’t even try to hold back his moan when Trent’s fingers curled…just…there, and his shoulders pressed into the couch as his spine arched, his chest lifting.

“Fuck,” he choked, reaching down to touch his own cock, needing the contact. Some kind of pressure.

Trent moved over him, pushing his knees further up, painfully so. Mason’s body wasn’t used to stretching this way and flinched as Trent pushed too far, but he didn’t say anything. It was fine. He’d handled worse than that.

“You alright?” Trent asked, his voice shaking, raspy and low.

Mason nodded and took a breath as he felt one of Trent’s hand’s leave his thigh, while the other tried rubbing some of the tension out of the other thigh. And then…there, the head of Trent’s cock against his entrance, pressing, slightly off center and sliding down, and again, and once more, until he got it right.

The pain, when the head popped in, wasn’t much, but it was there. Intense and exactly how he remembered. He swallowed quickly once, and then again, and he reveled in the slow, tight burn as Trent slid in, slowly, deep, until his thighs hit Mason’s ass, and Mason finally allowed his legs to drop just a bit. He choked, on absolutely nothing at the feeling of Trent, long and deep inside him, so fucking tight, and it was good. Could have been better if Trent would move, and fuck him, but he stayed still, fingers digging deep into Mason’s thigh.

“Mason,” Trent hissed, drawing out the ‘S’ in Mason’s name, and Mason groaned in response

Trent just gripped tighter and muttered something that might’ve been Mason’s name again, but Mason couldn’t hear much over the blood rushing in his ears.

“Fuck,” Trent groaned, and that Mason did hear. He forced his eyes open to see Trent, mouth slackly open, eyes squeezed shut. His face was flushed, or…that could have been the fire, but Mason doubted it. He thought…

And then Trent moved, and Mason forgot what he ‘thought’ and his own mouth opened in a silent moan.

Trent thrust, deep and hard, before the long, slow slide out all the way to the tip and Mason was losing himself. His skin burned where Trent touched him and was too cold where Trent didn’t. He moved with him, against him. They moved together, rhythmically, and then sporadically.

Harder.

Deeper.

More.

Fuck me.

He grabbed Trent’s shoulders and pulled him closer, as close as possible, hands grasping at his back, unconcerned or unaware of how uncomfortable the position was as his body folded awkwardly. Their bodies rolled together as Trent thrust and Mason rose to meet each one. Their skin slid and stuck, and slid and stuck with sweat and lube.

Trent thrust harder, quicker, getting close, and Mason grasped at his biceps, cupped his head and then moved back to his back.

Trent thrust again, grazing that spot inside, and Mason moaned, bucking up hard, and reaching for his cock again.

Trent thrust, and Mason stroked, his hand uncomfortable cramped between their bodies and he didn’t care.

Trent’s mouth hovered over his, open, panting damp breaths over Mason’s face. Their lips touched in a not-quite-kiss, just sliding open and sloppy against each other, and closer—fuck—closer.

Another thrust, two, three…seven, and too many strokes to count and Mason was tightening up and unraveling as he came, a stream of words he couldn’t understand himself falling from his lips as his body arched up one last time. He rode it out with Trent thrusting, all the while cursing and groaning, and thrusting in, out, and over again, through Mason’s orgasm and on and on into his own and…

“Fuck, Mason.”

His body arched up and away, out of reach, mouth open for long moments before he collapsed, onto Mason’s chest. The two of them lie together, breathing deeply, chests heaving. Trent’s cock softened, and slipped out what little bit it still needed to after he collapsed, and neither of them moved. The sweat and come grew sticky between their bodies, but Mason wasn’t at all bothered by it. Not for seconds. Minutes. It’s possible that more time—hours even—passed, and Mason had fallen asleep, but eventually, breathing under Trent’s weight fell on the impossible side of the fence and he moved, rolling them over onto their sides, Trent against the back of the couch.

The fire had grown dim, and would be out before long. The room was colder. Far more silent, and the few beers that had been clouding his mind had long since worn off.

He didn’t want to leave. He wanted to stay, wrapped up in a tangled mess of limbs and dried come, and sticky sweat. He wanted to sleep, and wake up, and have breakfast, and fucked up, awkward conversation, until the night came and they could start all over.

But he couldn’t.

He looked down at Trent, his eyelashes long and dark against his pale cheeks. His chest was rising and falling rhythmically, and he wasn’t moving, but he wasn’t asleep. He was always awake after, when Mason gathered his things and left, he just never said anything.

This time, though, when Mason gently pulled his arm from under Trent’s body, Trent’s grip tightened.

“Stay,” he whispered, eyes still closed. “Stay. Just tonight. She won’t be home all weekend. You can stay.” His arms were surprisingly strong for someone that looked like he thought eating was a chore, and he held Mason in place.

“I can’t…” Mason said slowly, half shocked that Trent even asked, and half angry, because it was hard enough to go without this. Trent never asked. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Trent was supposed to be cool, and unbothered. He wasn’t supposed to…this wasn’t supposed to happen.

Trent opened his eyes. “You can,” he replied, voice low. Flat. “You can. You just won’t.”

“Sara…”

“Is gone. And you wouldn’t be here if she was…”

“Don’t,” Mason cut him off, stern. He sat up. “I’m leaving.”

Trent sighed. “Damn it, Mason,” he whispered, eyes falling shut. “I can’t keep doing this.”

That was supposed to be a good thing. The best thing. If Trent gave up, Mason wouldn’t have to worry about trying to keep from giving in. If Trent stopped trying, it could stop. It wouldn’t happen again. He should’ve been relieved to hear that. It should have felt good.

It didn’t. His stomach twisted and something in his chest dropped. It took him a moment, and a few deep breaths to be able to speak.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mason asked grabbing his pants.

“This game,” Trent replied, sitting up. He didn’t bother with the clothes though. “I won’t play anymore.”

“No one asked you to,” Mason shot back, avoiding his eyes. “Let’s not forget; you called me.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Trent snapped. “Stop acting like you don’t give a shit, sit down, and fucking listen.”

Mason thought about ignoring that command. Thought about walking out and going home, back to his house, sterile and cold. His very large house, with all the best appliances and furniture and bullshit.

His very large house, so much more suffocating than this tiny ass apartment, five floors up with halls too small to spread your arms in.

He sat down, shirt in hands, and stared at the dimming fire and waited.

Trent sighed. “I won’t be this to you.” He shook his head, staring down at his hands. “You’re married for fuck’s sake, and I can’t…”

Can’t. One word, and Mason finally knew what that feeling in his chest was. Fear. And the term ‘paralyzing fear’ finally made sense because he couldn’t fucking move.

Mason swallowed. “You just said it. I’m married.” He’d have waved his ring for evidence, except, he didn’t actually have it on.”

“Yeah,” Trent replied. “And if that meant much to you, you wouldn’t have come back. Over and over. For a year. And…four months, I think it is.”

Mason flinched, gripping his shirt tighter. “Fuck you, Trent. Fuck you.”

“Did,” Trent said, cruelly. “But that’s off the point. I won’t do this anymore. I want you…more of you…” he sighed, rubbing his brow. “I want more than this.”

Mason shook his head, not bothering to try and keep the miserable, torn look off his face. “I can’t, Trenton. You don’t under…”

“I do understand,” Trent interrupted, standing up, pulling on his boxers and nothing else. “I just don’t care.” He sighed, running his hands through his hair. “No…I mean, I do care, it just doesn’t matter. I can’t do this, Mason. I won’t sit here for days—sometimes weeks—while you’re at home fucking your wife.”

“I never told you that you couldn’t…”

“Fuck you, Mason,” Trent interrupted venomously. He shook his head, taking a few deep breaths. “I’m done. I’m done playing this game. I won’t pretend I don’t give a shit, and I won’t pretend you’re just a fuck. Go down that road again, and I’ll shove the words back down your fucking throat.”

Mason didn’t reply. He couldn’t think of anything—not one fucking thing—that he could reply with, and the two of them sat there, in silence for minutes that seemed far too long to be spent in silence. Not with Trent.

“I don’t know what you’re asking,” Mason finally said, staring down at the ugly, dark green carpet.

“I’m not asking anything,” Trent replied. “I’m telling you, I’m done.”

“Because I won’t stay?” Mason asked, incredulously, as he stood up. “I never stay.”

“That’s not…no, that is why. You never stay. Not even when it doesn’t make a difference. Not even when she won’t find out. This…for me, this is a lose-lose situation. So, until you get your shit together and stop lying to yourself, I’m done. You and I—we’re done.”

Mason opened his mouth to protest, forgetting that this is what he wanted. He wanted this to be over. He’d been too weak to end it himself, but he should be grateful for this. He shouldn’t be trying to fight it, but…lies. All lies, because this—Trent—was what kept him sane. And he couldn’t let go.

“Trent,” he started, stepping closer to the man, reaching out.

Trent backed away. “We’re friends. I’m going to…” he trailed off shrugging. “I don’t know. I’m going to do what I do. You’ve got a wife, and if I can’t have you… I think I should find someone else.”

Rage. Pure rage; Mason didn’t like that idea at all. “What the fuck? This is petty and—,”

“Shut up, Mason,” Trent snapped. “You…I want you. You’re the one that won’t let me have you.”

Which wasn’t true. Mason let Trent have him all the time. He just couldn’t keep him.

“If you ’cant’… fine,” Trent went on carefully, his voice breaking slightly as he did. “That’s fine, we’ll go back and I’ll try being your queer, college best friend again. If you can’t… “He paused, taking a breath. “Fine. But I can’t do this anymore.”

That made sense. It all made sense, but Mason couldn’t… he couldn’t just accept it. He racked his brain for a way to fix it. To fix whatever he’d said to fuck this up. Why had Trent called if he was going to pull this shit? Or, if he hadn’t planned it, where had Mason fucked it up? What had he said?

“I’ll stay,” Mason voiced aloud, going back to the beginning of this god forsaken argument. “Tonight, I’ll stay.”

Trent shook his head, closing his eyes, and sat back down on the sofa. “Actually…I think you should go. I’ll call Monday. Maybe you, Sara, and I can get a bite to eat. S’been awhile since we did.”

He said her name, Mason thought wildly. They didn’t say her name. Not there at Trent’s apartment. They weren’t supposed to bring her there. That’s what Trent was always going on about.

“Trenton,” Mason started again, appalled at the way his voice broke.

“No,” Trenton cut him off before he could fully start. “If you want me…I’m here for now. I’m not going to just up and find…” he trailed off, sighing. “I’m here. If you want me, I told you what you’ve got to do.”

“My family…”

“I’m not asking you to tell them. I just won’t be this to you. Not anymore. I’m not going to keep fucking you and waking up to you gone, and knowing you’re with Sara. Now…go. And I’ll call.”

“But…”

And then Trent snapped. “If you’re gonna stay…I want you to stay for good. For as long as it takes for us to play out—if that’s what’s going to happen. Can you do that?”

Mason thought about it. He spent so long telling himself that he couldn’t do this anymore, that he’d do anything to keep it from happening, and now he was desperately grasping for a way to fix it. To keep it. He didn’t want to lose it. Didn’t want to lose him.

But he couldn’t stay. Not like Trent wanted. The night, maybe. He could tell Sara he got drunk and fell asleep, but he couldn’t stay ‘for good’. Or for any long term amount of time. He couldn’t. He married her. She wanted kids, and she had no place to go, away from their home. She’d been there since high school, and she was family. He couldn’t just leave.

He looked at Trent, and stepped close once more, and this time Trent let him. He moved in for a lingering kiss, just the press of lips, strong and firm but no further.

Then, he pulled on his shirt and walked out.

The sad part is, I can remember quite a few of the mistakes I was making while writing this. I got a little comma happy (a lot), and there a fragments, followed by run-ons. *sigh* I just can't find them anymore. Apologies for the torture.