Bending the Iron - 4. Chapter 4

Back in the day, thousands of people had called Hickory home. And there had been a hierarchy to go along with that population. Blocks and blocks of cookie-cutter American Foursquares, built barely ten feet apart, lined the steep streets that cut away from the southern end of the valley floor. Most of the roads had been brick-lined. Some still were, but the majority had been covered in asphalt decades ago.

On the north side of town, the main drag gave way to wider, tree-lined avenues, filled with elaborate and ornate Victorians. These days, paint peeled from the deep covered porches and gingerbread detailing, and the overgrown landscaping lent a wild look to many of the houses. The north side had been the homes of Academy Steel’s management. The south side of Hickory...that had been for everyone else.

It was to one of these south side homes that Eric led Michael. Compact, it looked better maintained than its neighbors. What wasn’t small was the three-stall detached garage shoehorned into the back of the lot. A set of wooden stairs led up the side of the building to a plain door.

Eric pointed. “Home sweet home. The owner’s a mechanic. Runs a shop out of his garage. Gets noisy sometimes, but I’m rarely here during the day.” He shrugged. “The price is right.”

No doubt. Whoever owned the apartment probably would’ve taken half of whatever Eric agreed to pay. It wasn’t as though prospective tenants were beating down the door. Every little bit helped.

They hiked up the driveway, and Eric stopped at the left-most garage door, which stood open. Inside, a man bent over the open hood of an orange Camaro. “Hey, Bill,” Eric said. “How’s it going?”

Bill darted a glance at the two of them before reburying himself in the Camaro’s engine. “Good. Can’t complain.”

Eric jerked his head at Michael, and they moved to the staircase. “That’s about the extent of our relationship right there,” he said softly as they hiked up the wooden risers. “But hey, nothing wrong with that. Nobody gets on each other’s nerves that way.”

Michael didn’t answer, but looked back when they reached the landing. Bill was leaning around the side of the building, watching them. At Michael’s return glare, he ducked out of sight. It wasn’t any use chewing on whether or not Bill was a gossip, and strangely, Michael couldn’t be bothered to worry. He followed Eric inside the second-floor apartment and shut the door behind him, turning the lock out of habit. Eric caught the gesture. His eyes flickered, but he didn’t comment.

“Why don’t you go first,” he said, kicking off his shoes. “Just leave your pants and shirt outside the door. I’ll get the laundry kicked off.”

If Eric thought he was going to get any protest, silent or otherwise, Michael meant to prove him wrong. “Sure. I appreciate it. And thanks again.”

With that, and a parting smile, he went where Eric pointed—through a tiny door off the living room and into a small but functional bathroom. It was the first time he’d had a look at himself since they’d gone gophering through the crawlspace. Dirt smudged his face and arms, and his shirt and pants had stains of mysterious origin. Best to not even speculate about those. He stripped and cracked the door open to drop the pants and shirt outside as ordered.

Hot and powerful, the spray soothed the few aches and bruises he’d acquired on their adventure, and Michael watched lazily as the grime washed down the drain. It was when he ducked his head to let the water pour over the back of his neck that the arms snuck around his waist. Suppressing his instinctive urge to jump, Michael breathed through the surprise and covered Eric’s arms with his.

Eric’s lips ghosted over the back of Michael’s neck and he said something. Michael missed it over the sound of the shower. “Hmm?”

“Nothing,” Eric answered, a little more loudly. “I want...”

They both wanted. Michael released Eric’s hands when he pulled them free, groaning when they sank lower over his stomach. “Wait.”

“What?”

Michael captured the roving fingers and turned them until Eric was directly under the spray. “Lean back.”

Having Eric obey with a soft purr made lust pound through his blood. Gracelessly, he poured shampoo over his hands and lathered it into Eric’s hair. “Byebye, spiders.”

“My hero.”

Such an inconsequential statement, yet it went to Michael’s core, evoking a contented sound similar to Eric’s throaty rumble. He scratched the shampoo into Eric’s scalp and worked it through the loose curls, then guided him under the water once more, skimming away the trails of shampoo that fell onto his shoulders and arms.

He lingered over his task long enough that Eric laughed. “Okay.” He grabbed Michael’s hips and danced them in a circle until Michael was back under the hot spray, back to Eric. “Hold that,” Eric said, bracing Michael’s arms against the tile wall.

Michael spread his fingers wide against the marble. “Who’s going to hold me up?”

“I’ve got you.” Eric reached for the soap with one hand and worked up a handful of frothy bubbles. He used his fingernails first, scraping lather along Michael’s upper thighs. “Don’t want to rush this, but don’t think I’m going to be able to help it.”

At least they were on the same page. Michael arched his back when the fingernails made another pass, and it was all the invitation Eric needed. He moved to cup one hand over Michael’s balls and lifted the other to his straining cock. Air exploded out of Michael’s lungs. He eased backward, careful not to dislodge Eric’s grip, but desperate to feel him.

“Give me some of that,” he rasped, and Eric scooped some of the lather into his waiting hand.

Letting go of the tile with Eric’s hands all over him probably wasn’t wise. His legs were unsteady, and the steam was doing its part to make him lightheaded. Still, Michael managed to angle the showerhead to the side, enough so that the water couldn’t wash away the soap. Then he reached behind him and spread the slickness over Eric’s erection. “Come here,” he said, pulling Eric flush against his back.

“God,” Eric whimpered against his shoulder. He tilted his hips forward, and his cock slid perfectly though the cleft of Michael’s ass.

“Yeah. Just like that.” He would’ve taken more in a heartbeat, but respected Eric’s reticence. This would do for now. Eric had been right about how it was going to happen too. They’d chosen the kind of intimate embrace that, if allowed, could be drawn out as long as the hot water lasted.

They’d never make it that long.

Already Michael could feel the beginning of the end, when the primal need to move, to complete, took over and nothing else mattered. Eric spun him to the top faster than anyone ever had. Maybe in time he’d be able to control it, but not today. Not now.

He wasn’t the only one either. Eric’s fingers closed tightly over his cock. “Michael. I can’t—I’m sorry.” He began to snap his hips forward, breath hitching against Michael’s back.

Michael might have even bothered to reassure him if all of his attention wasn’t on the tight fist jerking him off, and the jarring, sizzling impact of Eric’s cock against his ass. He couldn’t have held back the end even if he’d wanted to. He braced himself as best he could and let the wave break.

His sharp cry echoed against the tile, and Eric answered with his own. He crushed Michael close as he came, so that every pulse was felt by both of them, then continued to move gently as his climax passed, milking every last sensation. His fingers loosened around Michael, but didn’t let go.

When they were both sagging, boneless, against the wall, Michael twisted the taps closed, and Eric stepped out first to grab a towel and hand it back. Rather than use it on himself, Michael ran the soft terry cloth over Eric’s skin, gathering the loose droplets on his chest and arms before turning him to dry his back and soak the worst of the drips from his hair. Eric caught his breath and went still, but didn’t protest.

Michael nibbled his lip as he worked. He’d never done anything like this before. It had been an instinctive thing, to care for Eric, and he wasn’t prepared for the intimacy it invoked, stronger in many ways than what they’d just shared. He followed the towel with his fingertips, combing through the tips of Eric’s hair.

“How’s that?” he asked, voice thick.

In answer, Eric took up a dry towel and returned the favor. “I’m surprised you haven’t called me on having a personality disorder or something,” he said as he made slow swipes over Michael’s back.

“Don’t know what you mean.”

It was an outrageous lie, but it was an out, if Eric wanted to take it.

He didn’t. “You know exactly what I mean. I’m yanking you back and forth like a yo-yo. Saying one thing and doing another. It’s just...” The towel dipped, and Eric’s hands swept over his buttocks, traveling lower to capture any lingering dampness.

Michael shrugged. “You don’t have to explain.”

No answer came for a long time, but Eric continued to pat Michael’s skin long after it was dry. Finally, he dropped the damp towel. “Okay.” And then, after a deep breath, “You hungry?”

He tried to sidestep, but Michael hooked him by the waist and nuzzled the damp skin of his neck. “Yeah.”

“I meant for food.”

It would be so easy to get used to that playfully stern gaze. Michael grinned. “So did I.”

* * *

They curled up together on the sofa, sharing one fleece throw that covered enough skin to keep them both warm. Eric produced a block of cheddar cheese and a box of Wheat Thins. “This is what you get without advance notice. Sorry.”

“It’s perfect,” Michael said, meaning it. “Simple and filling. The best kind of meal there is.”

They ate in silence, and though the television was a few feet away, and the remote closer, neither one reached for it. Michael found himself turning his face into Eric’s hair every so often—at first to enjoy the clean scent, then to hear the soft purr that resulted every time he did. “How long will the restoration take, do you think?”

Eric chewed thoughtfully, gaze unfocused. “I’d like to be finished by spring.”

“Is that your deadline or theirs?”

“It’s mine. They didn’t specify a date, although I’m sure the sooner the better. But my next commitment isn’t until September, so finishing by April would give me a few months to travel.”

Michael dutifully swallowed his cracker, though it suddenly tasted like chalk. Under no circumstances did he want to talk about that, but changing the subject entirely wasn’t possible. He was the one who’d brought it up. “Do you do that alone or with a group?”

Eric rolled his head until they were nose to nose. He grinned. “Depends on my mood.”

“Funny.” He wriggled away from Eric’s teasing fingers, which had dropped to the blanket covering Michael’s lap. “Are you trying to distract me?”

“Maybe?”

Definitely. “The guy you were with? Did he ever go with you?” He caught Eric’s quiet indrawn breath only because he’d been watching for a reaction.

“Sometimes,” Eric mumbled, pulling back.

Michael blocked his attempt to shift away. Not forcefully. He placed a gentle hand on Eric’s thigh. Eric tensed before sagging against Michael’s side. “It wasn’t his thing, really. He preferred the five-star route, and I kind of enjoy the road less traveled.”

The idea gave Michael a perverse sense of satisfaction—that Eric’s old flame hadn’t been perfect. In more ways than one. He said nothing, hoping his silence wouldn’t be misconstrued. Circling his thumb on Eric’s thigh, he waited.

Squaring his shoulders, Eric said, “It was good in the beginning. Isn’t it always? But it didn’t last.”

Nor did it end well, judging by Eric’s dark tone. “How long?”

“Three years.”

Michael breathed through his surprise. They really were different people. Michael’s longest “relationship” was closer to three hours. A cute college student who’d invited Michael back to his apartment for the night about a year ago. Not exactly a comparable experience. Feelings of inferiority threatened to swamp him.

“Thanks for your help today.” Eric started building another cheese and cracker sandwich, and Michael gladly let the subject go. “I can’t believe how lucky it is that you can read those schematics. How long have you been interested in architecture?”

Michael didn’t even bother correcting him. “I don’t know. Forever.”

“Did you ever think about studying it?” The way Eric navigated the verbal minefield of their conversation impressed him. Michael wasn’t used to people tiptoeing around his feelings. “You mean at college?”

“Yeah.”

Michael brushed cracker crumbs off his lap. “Sure.”

“And?”

“You’re like a dog with a bone.”

“Want me to drop it?”

Yes. No. Michael tipped his head back, giving in. “I applied to a bunch of universities at the beginning of my senior year of high school. I got in to some, but no scholarships came my way. My parents had died the year before, and their estate was still tied up in probate. Anyway, because of the way the numbers shook out, financial aid wasn’t an option either. I took the job at Hickory Glass thinking I’d save up some cash and get started the following year.”

Eric wrapped his fingers over Michael’s knee. “What happened?”

“Life.” What more was there to say? “I didn’t have enough after one year, so put everything off again. Then Grandpap started drinking, and that got worse and worse. After a while, going to college just seemed more like a fantasy than any reality I was ever going to pull off.”

“You don’t—” Eric squeezed his eyes shut. “Why are you talking like you’ll never have the opportunity? You’re twenty-six, not eighty-six. And even if you were eighty-six, you could still do it.”

“You want to turn me into a hippie intellectual like you?” Michael teased, desperate to relieve some of the tension that had cropped up between them.

“Michael.” The stern look returned. “The only person whose opinion matters when it comes to how you live your life is you. If working at Hickory Glass until retirement were your dream, I’d be all for embracing it. Not everybody needs or wants college. The thing is...you don’t seem happy. Would studying architecture make you happy?”

That wasn’t something he needed to self-debate. “Yeah. Sure. I wish I could be an architect.” His throat had gone tight. The conversation was hitting too close to home, and he dragged his eyes away from Eric’s searching gaze. “I’d also like to win the Powerball. Wishes don’t mean shit.”

Eric’s thumb swiped back and forth over his knee. “Maybe not. But dreams mean everything.”