Page 36 of Under Construction

"Come here." He holds out a hand. Shakes the T-shirt open to cover the mat between his legs, smoothing out the wrinkles with his palm. "Your throne awaits."

"Really?" Dennis eyes the shirt—one of Chris's work shirts, covered in sawdust and god knows what else. "I’m soooo spoiled."

"Only the finest for my princess." Chris's dimples flash. "Can't have that expensive ass of yours getting splinters."

Dennis turns and sits between Chris's legs, the velvety softness of his flaccid dick against the cleft of his butt—and it should feel weird being this close, but after everything they've done to each other…

His pulse skips when Chris's arms circle his waist, interrupting the thought.

The goosebumps from the feeling of their skin touching must be from his body not getting the memo that they're done with the intimate part of the evening.

Dennis convinces himself it’s from the night air pebbling his skin, and he focuses on that sensation instead of how natural this feels.

This doesn't mean anything—didn't Chris say that?

And Dennis agrees.

But Chris's warm. So warm.

Above them, stars pierce through the city haze. Below, traffic hums. Regular life carrying on while they hide in their bubble of starlight and aftermath. The candle’s glow from the kitchen window barely reaches them here, just a faint warmth at their backs.

Chris balances the ukulele on his thigh, the neck resting against Dennis’s hip while his other arm stays wrapped around Dennis’s waist. His fingers find the strings, and soft notes—gentle plucks that turn into a slow melody—drift up toward the stars.

"You play?"

"Sometimes." Chris rests his chin on Dennis’s shoulder. "When I need to think."

Dennis’s knees draw up, releasing his cock to dangle in the cool night air. His hands come to rest on Chris's thigh to help steady the instrument.

Chris's fingers dance across the strings, alternating between light strums and individually plucked notes that somehow make the tension seep from Dennis’s shoulders.

All those months of snapping at each other, and he never knew Chris could create something this peaceful.

"What are you thinking about now?"

Chris's chest rises and falls against Dennis’s back. "How different you are like this," he murmurs, a smile tucked into the words.

Dennis’s shoulders tense slightly at being seen. "Like what?"

"Quiet." Chris's lips brush Dennis’s ear. His nose pushes behind it, breathing Dennis in. "Soft."

"I'm not soft." Dennis wants to scowl, but between the music and Chris's scent and the lazy satisfaction still humming in his veins, he can't summon the energy.

"No?" Chris strums a chord. His lips trail from Dennis’s ear to his shoulder, depositing a chaste kiss there and staying for a prolonged moment before they brush away. "What are you then?" The words ghost across damp skin.

Good question.

Right now Dennis isn’t sure what he is.

The son who's failing his father?

The architect trying to change the world?

The guy sitting naked on his site manager's balcony while said site manager plays him music?

None of those feel quite right.

"Play me something," Dennis says, instead of answering.

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