Page 15 of A Cure for Recovery

“Oh myGod.”

“Will you do it now?”

“Yeah.”

Lawson strips him out of his clothes with a slow carefulness that Tommy realizes is reverence. Not because Lawson thinks he’s weak, but because he loves him, really loves him.

And Tommy loves him back, so why did this sort of care ever make him question anything?

He wants – he wants so bad – so he doesn’t play shy. “Touch me. Please.”

Lawson makes a guttural sound, and then slicks his fingers and does touch him. Finally.

He doesn’t tease, but he goes slow, and Tommy tips his head back, closes his eyes, and sinks into the feeling of it.

~*~

Both of Tommy’s parents were slight – Mom is still, as timid and brittle as a sparrow. Frank is built like Tommy, not tall, but slender, wiry, athletic (though Tommy doesn’t feel so athletic these days). Noah’s size was a shock from birth. The old, faded photos in the baby book show two babies side-by-side, and one looks six months older than the other. When they began kindergarten, Mom told Noah, “You have to look out for your brother, because he’s so little.”

Little. The world trailed after him all his childhood like Pig Pen’s cloud of stench. Women thought he was adorable, and wanted to pet his curls or chuck his chin. Men gave him pitying looks, and said things like “we all have different gifts.” Or “maybe you’ll hit a growth spurt.”

It infuriated him. Made him prickly and self-conscious. And that was before Dad died. And before he had the stomach-lurching realization that he was different from his brother in another way, too; that he liked boys instead of girls.

He hated beinglittle. Hated beingpretty. Went cold and clammy all over at the concept of beingdelicate.

So it came as a mighty shock when he realized how wild he was for his size difference with Lawson.

Or maybe it shouldn’t have been shocking, because being little, and pretty in Lawson’s eyes had always meant being cherished, and he’d never been delicate to him. Before Lawson, no one had ever looked at him like he was the best part of someone’s day, or the most fascinating, attention-catching thing in the room. In any room. They teased and bickered and gave each other grief in the way of all friends, and Lawson’s affection was so obvious, so wholehearted, so utterlyLawson’s, unlike everyone else’s, that Tommy felt safe, and sheltered, and was given the chance to come to his own revelations about what he liked best, in bed and out of it.

He likes the breadth of Lawson’s shoulders; the way they stretch out all of his outgrown band and superhero t-shirts; the way, when he spreads an arm out, Tommy fits right under it, the perfect height and width, like that spot was made for him. He likes the squared-off shape of Lawson’s palms, and the length of his fingers. Likes the way his hands were so damn big on his own smaller body; Jesus, when he cupped one gently around Tommy’s throat…He likes the way the back of his neck and the tips of his ears always get sunburned at the start of summer. Likes the way his blue, blue eyes crinkle at the corners, temporarily in youth, but with faint, constant lines there now, happy crow’s feet in the making.

He likes that, though by seventeen he had a pretty good estimation of how the still-lanky boy he loved would mature, he arrived back in Eastman to find Lawson a tall, filled-out slab ofman. He loves that, actually. Loves that Lawson grew confident and sure of himself in those twenty years apart, now not simply willing, but damn good at taking Tommy apart. Rough when Tommy wants it, but sweet if left to his own devices.

It's always good. It’s always so, so good…

He doesn’t realize he’s making these quiet, choked whimpering sounds on every thrust until Lawson quiets him with a kiss.

“Feels good?” he whispers, and Tommy digs into those broad shoulders he loves with his fingertips.

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t realize there are tears leaking silently from his eyes until Lawson kisses the tracks at his temples, too, and Tommy blinks them open to see Lawson’s concerned, blurry face through a screen of dampness.

Lawson’s hips still. His brow furrows, and his lips compress, and he looks like he doesn’t want to, but finally asks, “You okay?”

He’s so much better than okay. For the first time in seven months, Lawson – his husband – is buried to the hilt inside him, and even with careful prep, it’s a lot, since it’s been so long; it’s overwhelming, and the last thing he wants is to stop.You okay?Displeasure, a kernel of anger, even, hardens in his chest.

But that isn’t fair. Because this is his husband, who doesn’t see him as little or delicate or weak. And last night he almost face-planted trying to swing his legs over the side of the bed, so it’s a fair question.

And he gives it a fair moment of consideration.

They’re both breathing hard, bellies sliding together, slick with sweat, and it’s creating an incredible glide of friction on Tommy’s cock where it’s trapped between them. He’s full, and overwhelmed in the best way.

He’s fantastic.

But when he tries to squeeze his thighs tighter around Lawson’s waist, they won’t respond. He grits his teeth, and tries again, but no dice. “Aw, fuck. My legs have gone numb.

“Wait, no, no,” he digs in tighter with his fingers when Lawson’s eyes pop wide and he starts to pull back. “Don’t panic. Don’t…it’s alright.”

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