Page 23 of We Were Never Lovers
Jack fumbled with the tray, eyes flicking to Sean’s, before he righted it with a mumbled, “Shit,” and stepped back hastily, his hands wiping at nothing on the front of his shorts.
“We were never lovers,” he said quickly and went back to the kitchen.
“So did I just imagine that in the kitchen last night then?” Sean called. “You suckin’ my dick? ‘Cos I don’t reckon my fantasy’s ever gone thataway before.” That was a lie, but Jack didn’t need to know that.
“You jerked me off too,” Jack retorted, his back to Sean.
“Uh, yeah? I mean it’s not a contest, but I’m just askin’, or sayin’, that wasn’t the first time, right?”
Jack sat at the table, his food in front of him. Sean was a big fan of the layout of Jack’s house—it was old, convict era, but someone had added the sunroom to the back of the original house, an extension protruding from and encompassing the kitchen, taking in the sweep of a dining room, living area with the enormous, comfy sunken couch Sean frequented, and a bathroom tucked around the side of an old wall. It was good because Sean could always see Jack from his spot on the couch—see him in the kitchen, sitting at the dining table, relaxing in the armchair, or tidying weights and Sean’s other physio things from the space opposite the couch near the large screen TV. The windows and sliding glass doors lined the space, east facing, so the morning sunshine filtered into the room through the old trees filled with lorikeets shrieking to meet the daylight—the ringnecks long gone and yet to be seen again.
It also meant Jack couldn’t hide; he could bury his face in his hair and focus on his rolled oats and fruit as if Sean hadn’t spoken, but it’s not like Sean could miss the blush rising on his cheeks, or Jack could miss Sean staring at him, waiting.
“No, that was not the first time,” Jack murmured.
Sean whistled, out of nerves as much as surprise—him and Jack were fucking? He had so many questions—how? Since when? Why? And if they weren’t lovers, if they weren’t together, what were they? Except what came out was, “So, I fuck you?”
Jack huffed and focused on his food. He shrugged after a moment, which Sean guessed meant yes.
As outrageous as it was, Sean could concede Jack was a gorgeous man and if future Sean had managed to start fucking that then future Sean was doing something right (in between losing his mind and becoming friends with Jack). But maybe that’s what it was. A friends-with-benefits situation. It made sense. More sense than the alternative—they were together—that was as unfathomable as them being friends.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sean asked and started eating.
Jack snorted derisively and finally looked up, his expression belligerent. “Yeah, I’m sure that would’ve gone well, when do you think I should’ve slipped it in? After you woke up and called me a cunt or when you decided to move out?”
“That’s not fair—”
But apparently Jack had been sitting on a few things and he was on a roll. “Maybe I could’ve just said, ‘hey, by the way, not only are we best mates, but you fuck me on the regular.’ Yeah, I reckon that would’ve gone over real well.”
“I fuck you on the regular?” Sean asked, his own blush rising. Clearly, they were fucking, last night, early this morning, that was practiced, that was the kind of sex you had with someone when you’d learned their body and everything they liked and you knew exactly how to give it to them. It was still bizarre, verging on incomprehensible, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t been the kind of good Sean had never experienced before. Jack knew how to map every inch of his dick with his mouth in ways Sean didn’t even know to like.
Jack shook his head—he was red and he looked upset, but like he didn’t want Sean to see it; the way he dropped his eyes with embarrassment, Sean knew he wanted this conversation to end.
Not fucking likely.
“I don’t fuck you on the regular?”
“What do you want me to say?” Jack stood suddenly and went back into the kitchen.
“I want you to tell me what we are to each other. I want you to tell me what the fuck that was last night,” Sean replied.
“It was, it was,” Jack threw his hands up, eyes fixed outside, “just blowin’ off steam,” he finished and turned the tap on, got busy with the dishes even though he’d barely eaten and neither had Sean.
“So, we’re what, fuck buddies?” Sean asked. It was difficult to get a good read on Jack with him in the kitchen and refusing to make eye contact, but maybe that was enough. Maybe that was the confirmation Sean needed on top of his instinctual feeling there was more to this story.
“Yeah, sure, if you wanna call it that,” Jack replied.
“I don’t know what to call it,” Sean said angrily. “I’ve lost the last two years of my fuckin’ life and you’re apparently deciding on what I can and cannot know, like the fact we’re fucking. That’s a pretty big piece of information to leave out. Why would you do that? Why would you not tell me?”
“Because you’re not the you who fucks me right now!” Jack turned, giving up the pretence of doing the dishes. He was breathing harshly and he looked angry, but again it was Jack, so it was upset too. He even had the gall to look hurt—hewas hurt?
“What the fuck does that mean? You reckon I learned how to fuck better in the last two years? Better in a way I couldn’t just figure out?” That stung—what did Jack think, Sean couldn’t fuck him properly?
“No,” Jack shook his head, gripped the kitchen bench and looked down. “I mean the you that fucks me, you know I like,” he took a deep breath, “certain things.”
Sean frowned. Certain things? What the fuck did that mean?
“It’s hard to explain,” Jack said and returned to his seat at the table. “So it’s probably best if we just forget—”
