Page 82 of Make the Play
There’s a fleeting thought that maybe this isn’t what he’s supposed to do after his first kiss, but this is what he needs and Jason won’t mind. Jason never minds. Jason understands him, in ways no one ever has. Jason innately knew Emerson was overwhelmed and overstimulated and on the verge of a shutdown and brought him here—somewhere private.
The truth of the situation hits Emerson in full force. Jason likes Emerson, not just when he’s happy or easy, but always. He likes him even when he’s on the edge of breakdown, nearly ripping the back of Jason’s suit jacket because he can’t pretend he doesn’t want to be closer. If Emerson could, he’d crawl inside of Jason’s suit and stay there, crawl under his very skin. Everything about Jason is warm and bright, and Emerson basks in him like a man starved of sunlight.
With Jason, he doesn’t need to mask, and the relief that comes with this acknowledgment has Emerson’s chest aching. He doesn’t want to let Jason go. Not now, not ever. He wants Jason. He wants to kiss him again, wants to go on a first date and hopefully a second and third. He wants to open himself up to all the vulnerabilities he’s spent a lifetime avoiding, and it terrifies him. There’s very little in his life he’s ever wanted and certainly nothing as desperately as he wants Jason. This big, beautiful man isn’t just Emerson’s crush, he’s his best friend, and somehow that makes Emerson want to cry.
Everything is going to be different now that they’ve kissed, and maybe it’ll be a good difference, but it’s still a change. But this—being held by Jason—is familiar and safe in a way very little in Emerson’s life ever has been.
Suddenly liking Jason feels as fragile as spun glass and Emerson holds on all the tighter. He can’t lose Jason.He can’t.
“I’m right here,” Jason whispers, as if he can read Emerson’s unease. “I’m not letting go, Emmy. Not until you tell me to.”
“What if I never want to let go?” Emerson whispers, the words half-garbled against Jason’s neck. Saying them spikes his anxiety. He can’t believe he admitted that out loud. He’s too intense. He’s too clingy. This is part of why he never wanted to date. Well, that and the part where he doesn’t really like people very much. But mostly, it’s because he knows himself and his tendency to hyperfocus, and he knows he’s going to be too much.
Except Jason surprises him, as always, by somehow managing to find the right thing to say.
“That might make eating and taking a piss kind of hard, but I’d be up for the challenge.”
Against the odds, Emerson laughs. Somehow, Emerson suspects that if he sincerely asked, Jason might actually try, giving him the funniest mental image while also soothing the part of Emerson that is so used to being too much for everyone.
“Be worth it,” Emerson mumbles.
“Hell yeah it would,” Jason agrees, those gloriously massive hands of his stroking up and down Emerson’s back. “Have I mentioned I like holding you? And kissing you. The kissing was fantastic. A-fucking-plus.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Emerson mumbles. “I bet I was horrible.”
“Not possible,” Jason counters so quickly it’s obvious he means it. “But for the record, I’m very down to practice. Like right now, for example. If someone very handsome who happened to be in this room with me wanted to kiss me, I would be very amiable.”
“I taught you that word last week,” Emerson says.
“Amiable is a great word,” Jason laughs.
More proof that Jason is one of a kind. So often, people get annoyed when Emerson infodumps about synonyms and random words he learned while reading, but not Jason. He always listens as if what Emerson has to say is the most interesting thing in the world. And he remembers too, often bringing them up later as if to say,see, I was paying attention.
The last of his unease fades, as it usually does in Jason’s presence. Emerson pulls his face out of Jason’s neck, blinking away unshed tears to look up at Jason. His smile widens when he catches sight of Emerson’s face, wrinkles forming in the corner of his eyes from the depth of his happiness, and it shoots a damn arrow right through Emerson’s heart.
“What do you say, Emmy?” His hands find purchase at Emerson’s lower back, anchoring in place. “Can I kiss you again?”
Those beautiful brown eyes of his are open and earnest, so full of affection that there’s only one answer it could be; there is only one answer it will ever be where Jason is involved.
“Yes.” Emerson whispers.
Jason angles his head down, one hand slipping around the back of Emerson’s neck. Not to control the kiss but just to touch, as if he, too, can’t get enough. When his lips touch Emerson’s, it's all Emerson can do not to whimper, the touch so unlike those he’s experienced before. He should be used to being close to Jason, used to his freely given hugs and shoulder squeezes, but he isn’t at all. Every touch from Jason feels like the first, and Emerson doesn’t think he will ever get used to how good it feels to be touched and held. And now, kissed.
And oh, Jason is a good kisser, the gentle slide of lips enough to have Emerson’s toes curling. It’s not until Jason pulls back that Emerson realizes he’s tapping his fingers on his palms—a happy stim he can’t seem to control. He tries to shove his hands into his pockets, so used to trying to hide, but Jason merely reaches for his hand and kisses each of his fingers from pinky to thumb before doing the same on the other hand.
“Do you remember what I told you?” Jason’s hand settles on the side of his face again. “I don’t want you to hide. Not from me, or anyone. You are exactly who you’re supposed to be, Emmy.”
“Sorry,” Emerson lets out a shuddery exhale. “I’m getting used to this…used to…being me. Just Emerson.”
“For what it’s worth, I like just Emerson.”
“You’d be the first,” he whispers, hating how much his family’s opinions of him still impact him even now that they’re thousands of miles away. Learning to unmask is hard. Learning to trust that someone being nice to him isn’t a joke or a tool to get him comfortable and then try to change him is hard. Being a person is just hard.
“Then everyone else are fucking idiots.”
“It’s statistically improbable that everyone else has been wrong,” Emerson points out, as much for the sake of being realistic as the insecurities clamoring at the edges of his brain.
“You know what else is statistically improbable?” Jason crowds closer, his hand sliding around to cup the back of Emerson’s neck. Those thick fingers of his hold on, not tight enough to hurt but enough that Emerson relaxes under the grip.
