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Irving told himself— he doesn’t know how many times he’s told himself— If I ever see Burt again, this time, I’m going to kiss him.
Over, and over, and over again, he told himself just that. Oftentimes, he told himself only that. He repeated it so often as an innie that his outie would sometimes wake up with the words dying on his lips, having only just passed through them. In a way, he even still knew them— could still taste them, in a way he would very much like to taste more.
There are no rules for kissing. No guidelines. Fraternization is discouraged, but—
Well, as nervous as it makes him— makes his innards, his innate him, the orderly and organized and obedient him— it can’t be wrong, can it? Not when it makes him feel the way it does. So right.
So—
Over, and over, and over again.
If I ever see Burt again, this time, I’m going to kiss him.
A talisman, a lucky charm, a mantra. A tether, a life preserver, a meaning. A prayer, a hope, an instruction. A desire, a want, a need. A promise, a promise, a promise.
If I ever see Burt again—
—This time, I’m going to kiss him.
He was told his outie is good at kissing and lovemaking.
He’d been delighted to discover that was the truth.
The morning is warm, soft, runny around the edges. The sun bleeds yellow at the horizon as if a cracked yolk, leaking across the blue plate of the sky. A cross-breeze filters through the open windows, lazily drawing the curtains towards him in gauzy pink plumes.
So much color, here. So much.
The floor underneath Irving’s bare feet is cold in an invigorating way. He lets his whole foot come to meet the hardwood each time— heel, bridge, ball; heel, bridge, ball— and still, he’s near-silent. Habit, maybe, ingrained over years, or deference to the early morning, or an incidental occurrence.
Or—
He’d really just rather not disturb Burt.
His broad-shouldered shape is not enough to fill the window framing him. That whole wall of their kitchen is mostly windows, clear glass to see through to the world beyond. Here, they can see grass, and sunlight, and birds. It is not all clouds and snow and empty highways, this far away, and their farm rolls out around their cottage in waves, the ground below frothing up to meet them again and again, far as the eye can see.
With the sun rising the way it is, the whole world outside is gilded, awash in that golden dawn light that Irving knew before, but didn’t know— thought about, but couldn’t remember. Beams streak through the kitchen, catching dust-motes on their languorous way to settling on countertops and chrome appliances.
It’s all supplemental, incidental, background information. Irving is too focused on Burt to pay all of it any mind, all these wonders that he has seen forever and are also so brand-new, familiar and longed for, common and fantasy.
There are no rules here. That had been terrifying, at first, but— with time, it’s freeing. Being— just being— is such a simple pleasure. He wishes he’d known it sooner. He thinks he might have known it once.
Now, though, he can just let the animal he is want and be and do.
In the sunlight, like this, Burt’s hair looks silver. His long-fingered hands wrap around a steaming mug, the heat twisting around itself, vapor rising to dissolve beneath his chin with buttercup-warmth. A matching mug sits on the counter still, waiting for Irv; it can keep waiting, for now. He’s busy.
Even as Irving watches, Burt inhales— a deep thing, moving his body, stretching his shoulders and inflating his chest and filling his belly and tipping his head up— and he just— he wants. He yearns for him, in the way that makes his fingers twitch.
His own body is so moved. His heart picks up, a comfortable speed within his ribs, pulsing through his veins. His palms warm up, the same flush climbing up his throat. His cock stiffens a bit, pressed to the soft, worn fabric of his underwear. It’s all so thrilling in its simplicity, in the automatic pump of his bodily reactions as soon as he sees him.
If I ever see Burt again, this time, I’m going to kiss him.
And there he is.
“Good morning,” Irv murmurs, his hand finding the center of Burt’s back. His pajama shirt is worn, orange stripes long since faded away; the cotton is thin, smooth, warmed from his skin.
“Hey, there, good morning,” Burt echoes. When Irving’s hand slides up between his shoulder blades, he closes his eyes, sighs through his nose, as if indulging in something very fine. “Mm.”
Irving steps into his space, taking his place at his side, letting them fall into half an embrace. Tipping up to press his lips to Burt’s cheek once felt impossible, absurd, so far out of the question that it didn’t have an answer.
Now, it is better than second nature.
“Sleep okay?” Burt asks him.
The air is thick, sweet, soft. Irving could almost think he’s dreaming.
“Slept alright,” Irving replies. He nudges him, just a little, a shuffle, an elbow to his belly. “Noticed when you weren’t there.”
“Sorry about that,” Burt says, and means it. “I couldn’t sleep. Didn’t think it was worth waking you with all my tossing and turning.”
“I’d rather be woken up like that,” Irv murmurs.
Opening his eyes, turning to the side, seeing nothing and nobody but a cold, empty bed, wondering if any of it was real, heart pounding an off-beat—
“Next time,” Burt tells him, “I’ll just go for it. Even if you fight me off.”
“And I probably will.”
“Oh, good.” There’s a smile in Burt’s voice; Irving can see the edges of it in his peripheral vision, the shape of his face when he’s entertained, happy, content. “Coffee?”
“In a minute.” Irving’s hand skates down the line of Burt’s spine, curved in just a bit, and traces to his soft waist. The tips of his fingers dip beneath the waistband of his pajama pants, his skin just as warm and rumpled beneath.
“Oh?” Burt asks, and Irving smiles, burying a huffed laugh into his shoulder. “Good morning to me?”
“Be quiet,” Irving tells him, not meaning it.
Burt laughs, asking, “Why? Who is there to hear?”
Irving doesn’t reply to that, letting his hand slip further down, gliding over the curve of his hip-bone. His thumb traces the jut there, nearly hidden beneath the solid meat of him. Like that, he turns him into him— just with that undemanding hand, placed just there, guiding him along.
The grip Burt has on his mug tightens, knuckles pale, as Irving lifts his chin and lets his nose brush along the side of his. It’s a simple intimacy, touching this way; Irving has vowed to himself never to take it for granted.
Their foreheads meet, for a moment, before Irving tips his chin up to change the angle. They find a kiss instead, lips slotting together.
If I ever see Burt again—
—Burt sighs, lips parting, and Irving’s hand traces the pudge of his waistline to the front, tracing below the band of his underwear, pulling it away form his skin, feeling the imprints on his flesh—
—this time, I’m going to kiss him.
Silver hair prickles beneath his fingertips. He pushes his fingers in further, in much the same way he pushes into the kiss. His own cock fills steadily, taking its time, unhurried as he drinks Burt in, hands roaming and lips tasting and eyes closing. The taste on his tongue is coffee and salt and animal warmth.
“Mm,” Burt hums again, a bass vibration that transfers from his throat to Irving’s. The sound resonates through his skeleton, and he presses in closer, letting their chests scrape together, t-shirt to pajama-top, a small yellow button pressing to the space over his heart. Irving echoes the hum, vibrates back into him, lets his fingers dip deeper down.
Irving opens his mouth, loosens his jaw, encouraging a deeper kiss. It shudders through him, every time, how much he wants this, how much he enjoys this. His body, entirely his own, and Burt’s, entirely his own, and the way they meet together, entirely their own—
Oh, he can’t get enough.
Tipping up onto the balls of his feet, Irving lets his tongue slide along Burt’s, a languid dragging heat. The blunt ends of his teeth scrape the edge of his lip, and they part for air, inhaling, eyes fluttering open to meet again.
“Yeah?” Burt asks, and Irving nods. “Alright, yeah. You wanna have a little fun, feel good—?”
“Yes,” Irving breathes, pushing up to claim another kiss as his own. His cock twitches, a bulge now straining against dark maroon cotton, a tiny circular wet spot beading up to absorb through.
Within the confines of his pajamas, Burt has valiantly matched him. They can’t do this as often as Irving would like but, if he had his way— your outie is skilled at kissing and lovemaking— he might genuinely never take his hands off Burt again, so. Maybe it’s for the best they met when they did, though—
Though, it doesn’t stop Irving from imagining a life together, from imagining them as children playing at each other’s sides, young men knotted up in the grass, middle-aged fools rediscovering their young love, grandfathers reflecting on their lives spent living.
They would be guilty pleasures, this thought, but Irving tries not to feel guilt over pleasure anymore.
And anyway— they did meet. They might never have. He’ll take what he’s been given and gladly, if it means even a minute of his life is spent with Burt.
If I ever see Burt again, this time, I’m going to kiss him.
Burt presses an open-mouthed kiss to Irving’s cheek, his jaw, scruffy and unshaved. His own skin is so soft, so warm, creases outlining every last bit of him that moves when he smiles, full-body.
“Lean on me,” Irving encourages him, and Burt tilts into him, letting him hold up his weight as his hand breaches the final distance and closes around his heavy cock. He doesn’t draw him out, just— holds him, for a moment, the weight and heat of him in his hand, and Burt makes a soft sound against him. “Hey, there.”
“Hey, yourself,” Burt replies, just a hint of strain in his voice. That, too, makes Irving smile, and Burt smiles right alongside him, not even needing to know his reasons. “Just shaking hands and on your way?”
Irving laughs this time, more than a huff, and Burt lets their temples come together before he kisses his cheek again.
“I’ve got nowhere else to be,” Irving murmurs against him, nosing into his hair.
They part only to come back together, another kiss sealed between them as Irving squeezes— lightly as first, then with increasing pressure, finding a slow rhythm. It’s nothing— it’s almost less than nothing— and Burt still pants into his mouth like they’re in a marathon, like they’re twenty, like he’s just knocked him flat on his back and started stripping his cock like he would if he could, but the floor’s so hard and his knees aren’t so good and Burt’s back and hips would definitely kill afterwards, it’s just not practical—
But he doesn’t care so much about practical things, or sensical things, or any things that are not Burt in front of him, in his hand, in his mouth.
Burt makes a rough noise, scratching along the back of his throat, and Irving murmurs, “Easy.”
A huff, and Burt shifts again. One hand, just the right side of hot from the mug’s heat, leaves the ceramic behind to find Irving’s hip, coaxing him closer until their bodies are aligned. A slight movement of his thigh and Irving has pressure against his cock, sending a frisson of pleasure through his entire body, all along his fault-lines.
It’s nothing, really. Little more than rubbing against him, and it’s still exquisite.
He moves his own hips, pushing forward to match his slow rhythm, the two of them tilted into each other in the middle of their kitchen. His pace on Burt’s cock is just as even, just as steady, and they kiss through it, finding each other once more.
If I ever see Burt again, this time, I’m going to kiss him.
The hazy outline of Burt disappears behind his closed lids, and Irving tucks into him as he kisses him, humps his thigh, fists his cock. So animal, so warm, so theirs.
Burt’s coffee mug bumps against Irving’s jaw; he smiles into the kiss, doesn’t break it. He picks up his pace in time with his heart, drawing his hand up now, up and up, down and down, stroking him along with each throbbing beat. The waves rush, roaring in his ears; he keeps making love to him like this, standing up, caught in the early morning window, sunlight painting him in broad strokes, gilt-framed, the perfect portrait.
When Burt cums, it’s with a groan into Irving’s mouth, caught on the back of his tongue, swallowed down his throat, consumed into his belly. His fingers drip with the warm spend, the insides of Burt on his outsides; unable to stop himself, he drags that hand out of his pants and up to his tongue, breaking their kiss to taste, and Burt huffs, the edges of his lips twitching up.
“You’re something else,” he says in a scrape. “C’mere.”
It’s not much longer, either, of Irving grasping Burt by the hips and being kissed senseless as he rides his thigh and moans, desperate and clinging and pulled from deep within, grabbing at him like they don’t collectively have enough decades between them to celebrate a sesquicentennial. When he cums, it’s with a blossoming stain across the thin fabric of his underwear that leaks out into Burt’s soft pants, a wet patch on his thigh that makes Irving blush to look at, as if he isn’t the reason it’s there.
“I love you,” Burt says, as Irving is brushing his hands over the outside of his pants. “Hey, leave that, look at me, I’m telling you I love you.”
“I made a mess—”
“Am I complaining? No,” Burt replies, and catches Irving’s next laugh in another kiss. Against his lips, mouths moving together, he adds, “Don’t forget your coffee.”
He tips his head back, nudges the rim of his mug against Irving’s lip in replacement of his kiss. Irving, still laughing, accepts the drink spilled onto his tongue; Burt turns to push him into the counter, seeming to want to pin him, to keep him.
Like this— the sun coming in from the front, shining on his face, golden— Irving is inclined to let him.
If I ever see Burt again, this time, I’m going to kiss him.
Looking him over, taking him in, he does, and he does, and he does.