Morning Theories, Sunday Proofs

The morning light crept through the gaps in Tom's curtains with the kind of lazy persistence that only a Sunday in Cambridge, Massachusetts could manage. Not that Tom was awake enough to appreciate it. He was somewhere between a dream about misfiling his thesis notes and the slow, dawning awareness that there was a warm body pressed against his back. A very warm body. A body that belonged to his best friend, Bijan, who was currently drooling onto Tom's shoulder blade.

Tom groaned softly and shifted, trying to reclaim some of the duvet that had been hijacked during the night. The movement pressed him closer against Bijan, and he became aware of two things simultaneously: first, that they were both wearing only their briefs, a fact he'd somehow not registered when they'd crashed into bed the previous night after a day of walking what felt like the entire perimeter of Harvard's campus; and second, that Bijan was hard. Very hard. The unmistakable heat of an erection was pressed against the small of Tom's back, separated only by two thin layers of cotton.

Tom lay still for a moment, unsure what to do with this information. He and Bijan had been best mates since their first week at Cambridge University, thrown together in adjacent college rooms and quickly becoming inseparable. They'd been through everything together — exam panic, bad breakups, that disastrous trip to Amsterdam where Bijan had accidentally ordered raw herring for breakfast. They'd shared beds before, on holidays with their then-girlfriends, in cramped hostel rooms, on Bijan's famously uncomfortable sofa. This was nothing new.

Except that Bijan's cock was pressed against Tom's back, and Tom's own body was responding in a way that was decidedly new.

Bijan stirred behind him, and Tom felt him tense slightly as he woke up. There was a pause — the kind of pause where you could practically hear someone taking inventory of their situation. Tom kept his eyes closed and his breathing steady, as if feigning sleep might somehow make the moment less charged.

"You awake?" Bijan's voice was rough with sleep, his mouth close enough to Tom's ear that the words vibrated through him.

"No," Tom said.

Bijan laughed quietly, and Tom felt the exhale warm against his neck. "Liar."

Neither of them moved. The room was quiet except for the distant sounds of the street outside and the hum of Tom's ancient radiator. Tom became hyper-aware of every point of contact between them — Bijan's chest against his back, Bijan's knees tucked behind his own, Bijan's arm draped loosely over his waist. And, of course, the insistent pressure of Bijan's erection, which showed no signs of subsiding.

"Bijan," Tom said carefully.

"Hmm?"

"You're, uh. You're awake, then."

"Very much so."

Another silence. Tom's heart was doing something stupid in his chest, beating faster than it had any right to. He told himself it was just the awkwardness of the situation, the morning surprise of it. Nothing more.

Bijan's hand moved. It was barely anything — just a slight adjustment of his arm where it lay across Tom's waist. But his fingers brushed the strip of bare skin between Tom's waistband and his navel, and Tom's stomach muscles contracted involuntarily.

"Sorry," Bijan murmured, though he didn't move his hand away.

"S'alright," Tom said, and then immediately wondered why he'd said that.

Bijan's fingers stayed where they were, warm and still against Tom's skin. Tom could feel his own pulse in his groin now, a dull, insistent throb that he was choosing to attribute to a full bladder rather than anything else. He needed to get up. He should get up. He should go to the bathroom, splash water on his face, and pretend this weird charged moment had never happened.

Instead, he shifted slightly backwards, a movement so small it could have been accidental. Bijan inhaled sharply, and his fingers spread out, pressing more firmly against Tom's stomach. Tom felt the calluses on Bijan's palm — rougher than he'd expected, probably from all that climbing Bijan had taken up since moving to California.

"This is weird, isn't it?" Bijan said.

"What's weird?"

"Us. This."

"We're just lying in bed, mate. Nothing weird about that."

"You're hard, Tom."

Tom closed his eyes. So much for pretending. "So are you."

"Yeah, well." Bijan paused. "Morning."

"Morning," Tom agreed, as if that explained everything.

Bijan's hand moved again, and this time there was no pretense of accident. His fingers traced a slow line from Tom's navel down to the waistband of his briefs, following the trail of hair below his belly button. Tom's breath caught, and he felt his cock twitch visibly inside his pants.

"Bijan..."

"I know," Bijan said. His voice had dropped lower, rougher. "I know, I know."

But his hand didn't stop. His fingertips dipped just below the elastic, tracing along the edge of the waistband from one hip to the other, and Tom felt a shiver run through him that started at the base of his spine and radiated outward. He was acutely aware of the heat of Bijan's body behind him, the solid wall of his chest, the way Bijan's hips had shifted so that his cock was now pressed directly into the cleft of Tom's arse through their underwear.

Tom's hand, which had been lying inert on the mattress, moved of its own accord. He reached behind him and found Bijan's thigh, gripping it through the skin-warm cotton of his briefs. Bijan made a sound — not quite a moan, but close — and his hand slid fully into Tom's pants, fingers brushing through coarse hair and then wrapping loosely around the base of Tom's cock.

"Fuck," Tom breathed.

"Yeah," Bijan agreed, and started to stroke him.

It was slow at first, almost tentative. Bijan's grip was firm but unhurried, his thumb sweeping over the head of Tom's cock on each upstroke, smearing the precum that had started to leak freely. Tom pushed into his fist, unable to stop himself, and behind him Bijan groaned and ground his hips forward, rubbing his own cock against Tom's arse with deliberate pressure.

Tom reached back further, his hand sliding up Bijan's thigh to grip his hip, pulling him closer. Bijan responded by tightening his stroke and pressing his face into the back of Tom's neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin there. The sensation was overwhelming — Bijan's hand on his dick, Bijan's mouth on his neck, Bijan's cock grinding against him with a rhythm that was getting steadily more urgent.

Then, without warning, Bijan pulled his hand free and flipped Tom over onto his stomach.

Tom landed with a soft grunt, the mattress bouncing slightly under him. He twisted his head to look over his shoulder, blinking in confusion. "What the hell are you doing?"

Bijan was already moving, positioning himself over Tom, one knee on either side of his thighs. His dark hair was messed up from sleep, his jaw shadowed with stubble, and his eyes — Tom had never seen his eyes like that before. There was something predatory in them, something hungry and focused that made Tom's stomach flip.

"You've got me too worked up," Bijan said, his voice low and rough. "I need some release."

Tom laughed, though it came out thin and nervous. "Mate, I can give you a hand if you want. Wank you off or something. We've never done that, but—"

"A hand-job's not going to cut it." Bijan lowered himself, his weight settling across Tom's legs, and began to rock his hips. His cock — still trapped in his briefs — slid along the crack of Tom's arse, the friction of cotton on cotton somehow obscene. "You've got me too fucking horny for that."

Tom pushed himself up on his elbows, trying to look back at Bijan over his shoulder. "You're having a laugh, right?"

Bijan didn't answer. Instead, he reached down and grabbed the waistband of Tom's briefs, yanking them down to his thighs in one swift motion. The cool morning air hit Tom's exposed skin, and he flinched.

"Bijan, what the fuck—"

"Hold still."

Bijan leaned forward, and Tom felt him spit directly onto his hole. The wet warmth of it was shocking, and Tom jerked forward involuntarily, but Bijan's hand was on the small of his back, pressing him down into the mattress.

Then Bijan pushed inside him.

Tom's breath left him in a ragged gasp. The intrusion was sudden and blunt, a burning stretch that made his eyes water. Bijan's cock was thick — thicker than Tom had ever imagined, which was a strange thought to be having because he had never in his life imagined Bijan's cock — and the lack of preparation made the first few seconds almost unbearable.

"Fuck — Bijan, fuck, what are you doing?"

"Taking what I'm owed," Bijan said, and his voice had changed again. It was deeper, harder, stripped of the usual warmth and humor. Animalistic. Tom had never heard him sound like this — not in five years of friendship, not through countless nights out and rough patches and everything in between. This was a Bijan he'd never met.

Bijan bottomed out with a grunt, his hips flush against Tom's arse, and then he pinned Tom down properly. One hand gripped the back of Tom's neck, the other pressed flat between his shoulder blades, and his full weight settled onto Tom's body, trapping him against the mattress.

Then he started to fuck.

Not gently. Not with any of the tenderness that the morning's slow build had promised. Bijan fucked like a man on a mission, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in with a force that shoved Tom up the mattress. The bed frame creaked in protest. Tom's fingers clawed at the sheets.

"Bijan — stop — we're best mates, that doesn't mean you can just—"

"Shut up, Tom."

Tom's mind was racing, trying to process what was happening. He and Bijan were best bros. They'd gone on double-date holidays with their girlfriends. They'd shared pints and secrets and stupid inside jokes that no one else understood. At no point in any of that had Tom ever imagined being pinned face-down in his own bed while Bijan fucked him raw.

Raw.

The word hit him like cold water. In all the hullabaloo — the shock of being flipped, the suddenness of penetration, the overwhelming sensation of being filled — Tom hadn't registered that Bijan wasn't wearing a condom. He could feel every ridge and vein of Bijan's cock inside him, could feel the wetness of precum mixing with his own saliva, and the bare, skin-to-skin reality of it made his stomach clench with something that was half fear and half something he refused to name.

"Bijan, you're not wearing anything," Tom said, his voice cracking. "You need to stop. You've made your point, alright? You've made your fucking point."

Bijan ignored him. His rhythm was relentless, each thrust punctuated by a low grunt that sounded nothing like the Bijan who laughed at his own terrible puns and cried during Pixar movies. His hand tightened on the back of Tom's neck, and his hips snapped forward with a precision that suggested he was chasing something specific.

"You've been teasing me with this arse for years," Bijan said through gritted teeth, and he brought his free hand down hard on Tom's right cheek. The slap rang through the room, and Tom yelped. "Walking around in those rugby shorts. Bending over in front of me. Like you didn't know what you were doing."

"I genuinely didn't know what I was doing," Tom said, his voice muffled by the pillow.

"Mmm." Bijan didn't sound convinced. He shifted his angle, and suddenly the head of his cock was dragging against something inside Tom that made his vision blur and his cock, impossibly, throb harder against the mattress. "But you know now."

Tom's body was betraying him. Despite the shock, despite the discomfort, despite every signal his brain was trying to send about how wrong this was, his hips were pushing back into Bijan's thrusts, and his cock was leaking a wet spot onto the sheets beneath him. He buried his face in the pillow and tried to steady his breathing, but each thrust punched a sound out of him that he couldn't control.

Bijan leaned down, his chest pressing against Tom's back, his lips brushing Tom's ear. "You feel better than I imagined," he said, and the intimacy of it — the quiet confession in the middle of all that brutality — made Tom's chest ache.

Then Bijan's rhythm changed. It got faster, more erratic, his thrusts shorter and harder, and Tom felt a jolt of genuine panic.

"Bijan — are you getting close?"

No answer. Just the wet, obscene sound of skin on skin and the creak of the bed frame and Bijan's breath coming in harsh, ragged bursts.

"Bijan, listen to me." Tom tried to push himself up, but Bijan's weight kept him pinned. "You can't cum inside me. Do you hear me? You need to pull out."

Still nothing.

"Bijan, please." Tom's voice cracked on the word. "Please, you can't — I can't believe you'd actually — please, mate, pull out."

Bijan's hand moved from between Tom's shoulder blades to his hip, gripping hard enough to bruise, and he slammed forward one final time with a sound that was almost a growl. Tom felt it — felt Bijan's cock pulse inside him, felt the first hot spurts of cum flooding deep into his gut. Bijan held himself there, buried to the hilt, his body shuddering with each wave of his orgasm, and Tom lay beneath him with his eyes squeezed shut, feeling every pulse, every twitch, every drop.

"Fuck," Bijan breathed, and collapsed forward onto Tom's back, his weight suddenly too heavy and too warm and too familiar all at once.

They lay there for a long time. Bijan's cock softened slowly inside Tom, and the pressure eased, but he didn't pull out. His breathing gradually slowed, and his hand released its grip on Tom's hip, fingers tracing absent patterns on his skin. Tom could feel his own heart hammering against the mattress, could feel the sticky warmth of Bijan's cum inside him, could feel the bruised ache of his hole around Bijan's softening cock.

When Bijan finally pulled out, Tom winced at the sudden emptiness. He felt wet — slick and open and used — and the sensation of cum starting to leak from his hole and run down between his thighs was so alien that he couldn't process it. He lay perfectly still, face turned to one side, staring at the wall.

Bijan slapped his arse — a casual, almost playful smack that was so at odds with everything that had just happened that Tom nearly laughed. Then Bijan swung off the bed, and when Tom glanced over his shoulder, the Bijan standing there was someone he recognized. The tension was gone from his face. His eyes were bright, his mouth curved in that familiar half-grin that said he was about to suggest something irresponsible involving food.

"Shower," Bijan announced, and padded out of the room without a backward glance.

Tom lay alone in the rumpled bed, staring at the ceiling. His briefs were still bunched around his thighs. His cock was still half-hard against the sheet. Bijan's cum was cooling inside him, and he could feel it starting to leak in earnest now, a slow trickle that pooled beneath him. He reached back tentatively and touched his own hole, wincing at how tender it was, and his fingers came away wet.

He should be furious. He should be disgusted. He should be doing something other than lying here with a stiffening cock and a head full of static, replaying the feeling of Bijan's weight on top of him, the sound of his voice, the way his hand had felt on the back of Tom's neck.

The shower started running in the bathroom down the hall. Tom pulled his briefs back up, rolled onto his back, and stared at the water stain on his ceiling that he'd been meaning to deal with for three months.

By the time Bijan returned, towel slung low on his hips, hair wet and dark and curling at the nape of his neck, Tom had achieved a fragile sort of equilibrium. He'd sat up, pulled the duvet over his lap, and was pretending to check his phone, though the screen was just his lock screen showing the time: 9:47 AM.

Bijan dropped the towel and started pulling on fresh clothes — a pair of Tom's joggers and a Harvard hoodie he'd stolen months ago and never returned. He rummaged through his bag for socks, found two that didn't match, and put them on anyway.

"Right," Bijan said, running a hand through his wet hair. "Where are we going for breakfast? I'm absolutely starving."

Tom looked at him. Bijan looked back, his expression open and cheerful, as if the last thirty minutes had been a particularly satisfying nap rather than — well, rather than what it had been.

"There's a place on Mass Ave," Tom said, and his voice came out surprisingly steady. "Does decent eggs."

"Perfect." Bijan grabbed his wallet off the desk and tossed Tom's to him. "Let's go. I could eat about twelve pancakes."

Tom swung his legs out of bed, stood up, and immediately felt another trickle of cum slide down his inner thigh. He cleared his throat, grabbed a pair of jeans, and headed for the bathroom.

"Make it thirteen," he said over his shoulder, and closed the door behind him.

They didn't mention it again. Not over pancakes, not on the walk along the Charles River, not when Bijan caught his flight back to LAX that evening. But when Bijan texted two days later asking when Tom was coming to visit California, Tom booked his flights before he'd even replied.