Home of Greg Sanders Slash Fiction
Chapter Four
He can still feel the lingering heat of Gil's touch even as Greg makes his next move, even though a weekend of dull domesticity has slipped by. That dichotomy is dizzying, the ghost of Gil's lips played against the solidity of Greg's fingers; he's shocked to a standstill, feels that he's spinning in two opposing directions.
"Nick?"
The concern in Greg's voice pulls him back to the present, to the reality of standing in line to see a movie with dozens of perfect strangers around them, ignoring them, aware of them only in that they are ahead of them in the line for seats.
Greg is holding his hand.
There are enough people, and enough random Brownian motion in the crowd, that they are standing close together anyway - their shoulders are touching, and every time the kids behind them shove each other good-naturedly he is knocked into Greg's side. The fact that they're holding hands is inconsequential in terms of body contact, except...
Except that they're on a date and Greg is holding his hand.
As always seems to happen with him these days, Nick is not entirely sure how he came to be here. He knows that Gil has two meetings this morning, won't be back to the house until at least noon, and he has too much energy to go home and try to sleep. He knows that Greg has gone to great lengths to get his hands on tickets for the 9:00 am (opening day) screening of the new Star Wars movie. He knows he is absurdly touched that the one person Greg wants to share it with is him. He knows that at some point he made the decision to be here, to be here alone with Greg, and he also knows that that is what constitutes a date.
And yet the sum of the parts scares him so much more than any one part alone.
As soon as he had realized what he had agreed to, he had sent a panicked inter-office email across the hall to Gil's office, and he has the reply in his back pocket, folded in half and then in half again, and if he concentrates he can feel it lying flat against his body. It says:
Re: As discussed
> Are you sure this is all right?
Of course. -G.
It feels like a hall pass, and the problem with hall passes (he remembers from grade school) is that once he has one, he feels compelled to use it. He always took the longest, most circuitous route from the boys' room back to the classroom because he had tacit permission to be there. He remembers that it had been a sore point with his teachers, one of whom had eventually solved the problem by inventing a conditional hall pass exclusively for him, which allowed him to be in the hall directly between the classroom door and the washroom, and nowhere else in the building.
He's no good with absolute freedom. He knows this, and that is why he feels so miserable despite being in buoyant company, waiting to see something that (admit it, Stokes) he has been waiting for.
Greg squeezes his fingers. "You okay?"
"Hm?" He turns his distracted attention to Greg, fixes a smile on his face. "Sure."
"Really sure?" Greg pushes, "or just mostly sure?" The concern in his eyes, in his voice, is so sweet that it touches Nick even though he (thinks he has) steeled himself against it.
"I'm sure," he hears himself say.
Greg looks at him for a moment, then smiles a tiny bit and drops his hand. "Sorry," he says.
Nick concentrates on his hand, newly freed from the kindness of Greg's touch, and examines how he feels about it. On one side, he knows he shouldn't be on a date and therefore shouldn't be doing date things like holding hands. On the other, Gil knows where he is and has told him explicitly that he doesn't mind. He is (in fact) encouraging it.
So with a miserable feeling in his stomach, he snatches Greg's fingers up from where they are hanging at his side, and squeezes them. "It's okay," he hears himself say.
The explosive way Greg bounces on his toes all of a sudden makes him laugh a little, and Nick twines their fingers together a little more closely.
He can see that Greg is restraining himself from kissing him on the spot.
The movie is about as bad as he'd expected, but he admits it was fun to be in a theatre packed with dorks in hooded capes with plastic light sabers. And it was fun, in a bad sort of way, to feel Greg's knee resting against his in the dark, to randomly encounter his fingers in the popcorn bag between them, to be so acutely sensitive to the body next to him. To spend two and a half hours barely touching, becoming hyper-aware of each other, feeling the tingling of proximity that he still imagines he can feel.
"Well," Greg says when they emerge, blinking, into the daylight, "that was..."
"...something," Nick finishes with a smile. They aren't touching anymore; it's as though they both know how dangerous it would be to so much as brush fingers in public.
"Yeah." Greg fumbles with his sunglasses, gets them out of his pocket and onto his face. "So..."
"So."
"Coffee?"
He wants to say no. He wants to take his impulse to kiss someone and run home and spend it on Gil - except Gil isn't there, and in all honesty that impulse belongs with Greg. Belongs to Greg.
"Sure," he hears himself say. The tension between them increases tenfold.
They make it to Greg's car, and manage to behave themselves all the way through traffic, but Greg isn't driving towards the commercial, trendy part of town and Nick never really expected him to. He's driving home, towards his apartment on the far side of town, and Nick isn't sure if the butterflies in his stomach are eagerness or terror.
Greg's flat is on the second storey, overlooking a tiny concrete pool in a crowded courtyard, and the grand tour takes about thirty seconds: kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, main room.
Nick stands for a few moments, looking out at the shimmering water in the pool, letting himself fixate on that instead of on the maddening and overwhelming presence of Greg at his side.
Then Greg touches his shoulder, carefully, and Nick can feel what little control he's been maintaining up til now evaporate. He turns smoothly, catches Greg's mouth with his own, and surrenders to what he has been anticipating all day.
Greg responds with equal fervour touching everything he is not actively kissing. He groans into his mouth, grinds against Nick's pliant body, pulls back enough to take a shuddering breath and dives in for more...
"Wait," Nick says when he gets a moment of relative coherence. His shirt is undone, Greg's belt is hanging open, his are almost black with desire.
"What?" Greg asks, unfocussed and desperate.
"Too fast," Nick stammers. "Gotta slow down. Sorry."
The disappointment that flickers across Greg's face is heart-wrenching, but it passes quickly enough and Greg's hands are still on his body. "Okay," Greg says, swallowing, and kisses him slowly, softly. "I forgot."
"Me too," Nick says, kissing him back but keeping his teeth closed. It's a little too insistent to be chaste, but it doesn't scare him, not like the heady rush of a few moments ago. The skin under his belly button is still electric from Greg's fingers and he wills the sensation away.
"It's just," Greg says against his neck, resting his head on his shoulder and breathing as steadily as he can.
"I know." He's leaning against the wall next to the window, and eventually starts to push Greg away. It's like pushing at a lethargic octopus. "Believe me, Greg, I know, but..."
Greg is finally moved away, finally lets his arms fall away from him and makes the supreme effort of balancing on his own two feet. "But," he says. It sounds hollow with an undertone of understanding. An attempt at understanding, anyway.
Nick scrubs at his face with his hands, turns back to look at the courtyard while he rebuttons his shirt. He can't make himself believe that Gil truly understands what he's condoning. He knows him well enough to not kid himself that the man is a prude - if anything, he's the most sexually experienced person he's ever met. So part of him knows Gil understands that his attraction to Greg is sexual, but the rest of him refuses to accept that he wants them to have sex.
He sighs, doesn't want to turn back to face Greg, can't stay staring at the window all day.
"I like you, Nick," Greg says suddenly from behind him, from far too close. "And I think - I think we're good together. And I can wait, god knows you're worth the wait, but... You just have to trust it, Nick. Stop fighting it."
"Greg..." He turns around, feels his breath taken away by the intensity he sees on his that face. His throat closes and he has to instruct it to open enough to breathe, to speak. "Look, Greggo, I..." He takes a deep breath. "I'm screwed up. I'm a total jerk, I don't deserve this, I don't deserve that look you're giving me, I'm a total shit."
"No you're not-"
"Yes," he insists, "I am. I'm seeing someone, and I'm standing in your living room with a hard-on that you gave me. I'm toxic, man. You should just stay away from me."
Greg takes a step forward, his chin angled up defiantly. "Who?" he challenges. "Who are you seeing?"
"I can't tell you that."
"Bull shit." He's stopped his advance and his lust is transmuting into anger. "Don't give me that shell of an excuse-"
"It's not an excuse, Greg, it's a fact."
"Then why are you even here?" he demands. "If you're so madly in love with whoever it is that you can't bring yourself to name, then why are you here?"
"Because I'm an asshole!"
"No you're not!"
He stops the argument then, before it escalates into a screaming yes-I-am, no-you're-not exchange. "I gotta go," he says stepping sideways around Greg.
"Shit!" Greg catches his arm. "Don't go like this, Nick. Please."
"I have to."
"At least let me kiss you goodbye."
He wants to say no, he really does, but his mouth won't form the word. He consents to the kiss, tries to ignore the treachery of his body, then steps back. "Gotta go," he says.
Greg stays where he is, in the middle of the crowded living room and watches his retreat. "It's not over," he says just before the door closes, when Nick knows he can still see his elbow through the crack.
The door swings open again, and Nick is wearing the most pleading expression he owns. "Let it go, Greg."
"No."
"Greg..."
"I don't know what's going on in your head," Greg tells him, "but I know what's going on outside your head, and I know that you want this. That you want me."
He can't bring himself to lie, and the triumph of victory shines on Greg's face.
"I've got to go," is all he can find the words for, and he closes the door on whatever it is that Greg has to say about it.
He calls a taxi from the front of the building, takes it back to the lab and sits in his truck in the parking lot until he's stopped shaking enough to drive.
Gil's car is gone.
He drives home.
"You're back early," Gil says from the living room where he's stretched out on the couch in bare feet with the newspaper.
Nick shakes his head and drops into the chair nearest the couch. "I can't do this," he says, sounding exhausted.
The paper falls to his chest and Gil peers at him, thoughtfully. "Can't do what?"
"Can't do this thing with Greg."
"Why not?"
Nick stares at him incredulously. "Why not?" he echoes. "Are you kidding?"
"No." Gil sits up, lets the paper settle to the floor. "I'm interested in this."
He slouches into the chair and kicks his feet up onto the coffee table. "It's totally dishonest," he says. "Even if you know all about him, he doesn't know all about you. I'm lying to someone no matter what."
Gil looks at him for a long time without moving. "You could tell him," he finally says.
"What?" His head has lolled back into the cushions but now it snaps up, turns directly to face Gil.
"Tell him."
"I can't do that."
"Why not?"
"We've-" He doesn't even know where to start. "We've been together what, almost two years? Nobody knows about us. We agreed on that, remember? If anyone knows then everyone knows, and that means Ecklie knows and one of us - probably you - is toast."
Gil smiles at him. "I'm already on Ecklie's shit list."
"Exactly," Nick says. "One thing that he can use against you and that's it." He takes a deep breath, continues before he loses his nerve. "What we have is good, Gil. It's better than good and I don't want to fuck it up. I don't want to do something stupid with Greg, and I don't want to give Ecklie a loaded gun." He shakes his head. "Status quo, Gil. I'm done with Greg."
Gil leans forward and picks his feet up from the sprawl of magazines, pulls them into his lap and starts massaging them. "I don't think you're giving Greg enough credit," he says at length. "No, hear me out." He shifts down against the stuffed cushions until he's almost horizontal, and keeps his hands moving in relentless circles on Nick's feet.
Nick is watching him uncertainly.
"This thing is between the two of you, and I'm not going to pretend to have any right to give you instructions. But as an interested outside observer, I don't think Greg is going to give up on you so easily."
He groans, covers his eyes. "That's what he says, too," he grumbles.
Gil grins. "Talking to him," he says, "actually talking to him about this, about us, may be your best bet. Then everything is out in the open and you won't feel like you're cheating. On anyone."
"Simple as that, huh?" Nick asks.
"It can be."
"And what about when Greg freaks out and blabs to the first person who'll sit still long enough to listen, and that person happens to be Ecklie?"
Gil shrugs. "Life is risk, Nick," he says. "Stop risking and you stop living."
"I have enough risk in my life as it is without adding to it."
"If you say so." He squeezes Nick's socked feet and holds them against his stomach. "But if you change your mind, at least consider it as an option."
Nick groans and lets his eyes fall closed. "I'm through with considering options," he says savagely. "I'm through with the whole thing."
He can feel his feet moving as Gil laughs silently.
"I love you so much, Nicky," he says after a while. "Don't ever stop being you."