Page 59 of Under Construction

Like how it might feel being properly entered.Penetrated.

Of having Chris all the way inside him. Actually fucking him.

Of them having sex.Realsex. Not just the kind that simply feels good or ends deliciously messy. Not just the touching and rubbing and sucking and finger fucking.

But the kind of dick-in-asshole sex with sweaty panting and non-stop kissing thatconnectsthem.

Physically. Viscerally. Deeper and more intimate than anything else they’ve ever done.

These thoughts are usually forcibly tranquilized with a splash of cold water—or several—on the face in the men’s restroom.

But sometimes, when Chris has got him pinned to the bed—mouth hot on his inner thighs, hand splayed wide and firm on his lower belly as another massages him open, Chris's eyes glued to his fingers in an unblinking daze as he works—Dennis finds himself wanting to watch too.

To see what Chris sees. To know what Chris's fingers look like sliding in and out of his body.

Stretching him. Pleasuring him internally until he’s choking on words, blacks of his eyes rolled to the back of his head, begging for more, just as Chris had predicted he would.

Dennis doesn’tlovehow affected he is by these thoughts and memories. The only solace he has are constant curiosities he tries not to think too hard about. Wonderings like:

But what about Chris?

Does Chris remember that first time too?

Does he replay it over and over in his head like Dennis does?

Dennis doesn’t know. But he does catch Chris staring sometimes—in the middle of meetings, during lunch breaks, while reviewing blueprints on-site together—even with twenty-odd people milling around them.

Chris's eyes stick to him like Dennis is some kind of magnet he can't resist, and fuck if that doesn't make Dennis’s stomach flip every time.

What goes through Chris's head when he looks at Dennis like that?

Whatexactlydoes Chris want from him?

Maybe Dennis is reading too much into it. Not everything revolves around him and his big head and main character syndrome.

Sigh. Chris has probably forgotten about that night entirely.

After all, he said he couldn’t wait to try again. But to date, it’s never come back up in their conversations.

Dennis’s face heats up hot as he updates material orders, jaw clenched. Stupid brain, always circling back to make him feel like shit. Shut up, shut up, shut up.

One day, work seems to feel particularly endless without a single Chris sighting.

No stolen kisses behind the lumber pile, no quick blowjobs in the supply closet, not even a new dick pic to keep him company.

Six PM turns into seven, then turns into eight, and Dennis is still hunched over permits when Chris appears with takeout bags and that stupid grin that Dennis loves.

"Eat something before you pass out and I have to explain to your dad why his son died of terminal stubbornness."

"Fuck off," Dennis says, but he's already reaching for the food, his chair rolling towards Chris, fragrant and piping hot making his stomach growl. "Like you'd ever talk to my dad.”

"True. I'd probably just wheelbarrow your good-looking corpse through meetings."

Dennis shovels a forkful into his mouth before responding: "At least then, I'd still be more useful than you."

Chris bursts into laughter, spraying rice everywhere and nearly tipping over the takeout bag and spilling biryani all over the floor.

"Eww, gross!" Dennis recoils, napkin clutched to his chest like a shield. "Do you save all this disgustingness for me, or is everyone lucky enough to experience it?"

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