Dance is unbuttoning Drin’s jacket, then his own. Much as Drin likes watching those deft hands at work, he stills Dance’s fingers and sets his own to the buttons of Dance’s shirt, learning that it’s silk. It’s cheap silk, but it’s new. He knows Dance spent more than he could afford, making that extra effort. Drin works the shell disks free on Dance’s shirt while his own buttons are being undone with pickpocket speed; a warm hand slides under Drin’s shirt and pushes up, before Drin has finished his own task.
“Mmm,” Dance breathes it out. He has a small, secretive smile, his fingers carding through the hair on Drin’s chest as he waits.When Drin has got the musician’s shirt undone, Dance tugs Drin’s soft shirt up and off his arms. Dance pulls the older man’s shirt free, and puts his nose in it, and sniffs it, smiling, before he shakes it out and sets it aside in a neat flat pile on an old, battered dresser.
Drin watches this, and then slides the younger man’s sleeves down arms that play violin for eight hours a day, and dig in his garden in his free time. There’s the heavy shoulders like a cape, and the flat smooth planes of chest muscles, and the gorgeous tight belly. “Wow, he says involuntarily.
Dance lifts his wrists outward, offering himself for a moment. “Not so skinny now,” he says, smiling up at Drin. Then he rests his hands up on Drin’s shoulders, slides his palms lightly down Drin’s arms, pausing to take his hands. “So big,” he murmurs, looking up again. Then he’s kneeling, moving so fast Drin’s reaching hand just brushes his hair. Damn, he’s fast.
Fingers touch Drin’s belt, open the expensive buckle with a slight fumbling of unfamiliarity, and then Dance’s hands rest on his waistband. The man is watching Drin… appear. He is breathing fast, and he leans in close and takes a deep inhaling breath, almost a gasp, at Drin’s belly. “Your smell, this is wonderful.”
“Yours too,” Drin replies. He’s always liked watching Dance after performances, seeing the body loosen in the stiff suits, with that trickle of sweat, get a whiff of the herby smell of him. Yes, something Drin has noticed, even obsessed about, but it’s so strong now with the added musk of semen. Not what Drin expected. Not ordinary gym-sock guy sweat, not the scent of rosin from his instrument, not the food they ate, and not one of the cheap colognes that other Metro musicians indulge in. It makes Drin want to pull him close and howl at the moon. The whole room smells of him now, something like fresh-cut redwood, leaf mold, acorn mast. It feels odd, liberating, to let Dance watch him take a deep sniff of that crumpled silk shirt. The scent lingering in the shirt has a sharp resinous bite, earthy as pine knots burning.
Dance looks up. “Is smell important for you too?”
“Very,” Drin agrees, because if it’s important to Dance then it’s become important to him. He reaches down and touches the top of the brown shoulder, and suddenly his arms are full of a muscled body, and he closes his grip on it. He walks them both to the bed, feeling his trousers fall away as he goes. He kicks them off while their bodies are already falling to the mattress, Dance’s soft laugh whooshing out of him at the impact. Drin lifts and twists himself so that he can flip Dance’s fly open without giving up much contact. Age and skill do have some uses.
But he has to kneel up to tug the pants away from the most beautiful pair of legs he’s ever seen. Dance laughs a little again, breathlessly, shifts his feet and kicks off his shoes and reveals feet just like his hands, feet that work hard, feet with the calluses of somebody who fights barefoot in a dojo, just as he talked about. But Drin doesn’t get those boxers yanked down those legs before Dance is pulling him over. The musician’s rough hands slide around him and the harsh touch sets him off. Drin sprawls out hungrily all over the smaller man, breathing in deep harsh gasps.
Dance is lying under him and his very skin seems to be gulping in the solid weight of Drin’s body just as greedily. His hands slide around Drin’s shoulders, up his chest, around his ribs. When he reaches a hand up, Drin has to forestall him. It’s Drin’s turn, first, to explore, and he puts his hand over Dance’s wrist, pushing it to the mattress. Then he feels his way along the man’s body, listening to the man’s sounds, the little wordless cries. He lowers his head to nuzzle in to one of those great strong thighs, breathing gently across the black straight hair dusted scantily across the outer blades of Dance’s muscles, taking in the scent of him. It’s just Dance, that piney odor. Then he opens his mouth and drops a dry, soft kiss on the femoral artery pulsing in Dance’s skin. The muscles harden, and he feels the man’s diaphragm rise in a harsh cry. “Oh!” Dance gasps, and his back arches upward.
Drin feels sweat prickle on his own forehead, run down his spine.
He moves down to the knee, admiring how it’s picked up some working scars, some dings from that same dojo, and brushes his palm lightly down the calf muscle as he kisses the inner curve of Dance’s leg. The calf muscle strains tight, clearly trying to behave itself for him, and he smiles up the amazing length of man laid out on top of the bed, gasping softly. “Hush, it’s all right,” he murmurs, into the long smooth strap of muscle tensed over the man’s shin bone. Some of that exertion clearly goes into a swimming pool and mileage on the pavement, he’s not just bulking up knots in the weight room or the dojo.
Drin puts one knee between the other man’s legs, just the one knee, without either straddling Dance’s body or pushing his legs apart too far, because he doesn’t want it to feel threatening. He puts his palms flat on the outside of Dance’s thighs, and he strokes his hands lightly down the man’s legs, stroking gently with the fur, however minimal, and not against it.
The beautiful torso tightens up and the ribs arch up and the belly closes down into diamond-shaped panes, and the hips tilt sharply upward.
Drin pauses for some deep breaths. Oh, the smell of him! He’s not going to last two minutes once he gets that man’s cock out of those boxers.
All– all of this. All wrapped up, hidden away, unseen until now, and all because he, Drin, noticed the promise, and wanted to find out what that sparkle meant.
Rather than get hasty about things, he shifts his knee away from Dance’s legs–he thinks, wryly, at least he knows not to overdo a new training prompt–and he sits down on the edge of the bed next to Dance. “Are you ticklish now?”
Dance shakes his head, flinging hair along the bed, and reaches out.
Drin grips the flailing hand, presses it lightly to the bed, strokes fingertips up the man’s forearm. “Easy,” he murmurs, and watches the arm muscles. “That’s good. Let me touch you awhile, give you time to relax.” He twists around and brushes his hand along Dance’s skin lightly, letting Dance get used to being touched. Dance is not used to it. The sounds he make would show that. It’s true, he’s not ticklish. But the jerks of his skin, the jumping untrusting muscles, the startle reactions, are intense.
As much as Drin can spread the stimulus out he does, letting his hand stay flat and firm and trustworthy, but still Dance is gasping and twitching. Drin can imagine from those sounds just how strange it feels to Dance, how starved for touch he must be. He’s careful at first, as too much contact has irritated past lovers. Not this man. He doesn’t know why Dance would keep his distance from other people for so long, and then suddenly decide that Drin is his person, in exactly the same way as some complete stranger of a stray cat he finds sitting on the doorstep, yowling that they’re home, it’s time for food now, and by the way, they want petting. A lot of petting.
Drin feels his hands settling into a pattern of touching Dance, reassuring, admiring, learning him. It’s trance-like, brushing his fingertips over all that beautiful skin. With his hands he looks at Dance’s chest, at his belly, at the arms, at the powerfully muscled neck, and then, with the lightest touch of his fingertips, his face, along under Dance’s neck into his hair, and gently onto his temples, and his forehead. Dance blinks and looks up at him, lips open and bright red with arousal, his eyes almost all pupil. Drin smiles at him, at the wild impatience throttled down and still thrumming through the man’s body. He leans down and then, at last, kisses Dance the way he’s wanted to kiss Dance all night.
Dance doesn’t know how to kiss.
While Dance is totally occupied with diving in and learning the shape of Drin’s lips and his tongue and most of his teeth, Drin starts working on teaching him the difference between fucking the back of Drin’s tonsils with a tongue that could probably reach halfway down Drin’s throat, and instead trying a nice calm minuet with the other person’s tongue tip. Or a brisk forceful bit of tango. Dance is a quick study. He gets the tango right away.
He’s just never done it before.
By the time Drin has finished kissing him, deciding that he needs to breath for a few minutes, he’s already had Dance flopping and pushing and shoving at him like a landed fish, they’ve rolled over three times across the bed, and the other man’s boxer shorts, which are pushing into Drin’s thigh, are soaked through, and not from Drin. Drin has his own damp problems.
“Now that,” Drin says, flat on his back by now, looking up, and breathing hard, “is what a kiss is supposed to be like.”
Dance is up on his elbows, staring down into Drin’s eyes, and he’s not breathing quite as hard, but the intensity is all there. “Kissing you,” he says.
Drin is breathing too hard to smile that wide. He lets his hands come up and rest on those amazing cheekbones. “Messy,” he agrees solemnly.
Dance leans down into him, bringing Drin’s hands with him, and Dance kisses Drin on the mouth. He figures out the minuet, too. Then Dance does with his mouth what Drin did to him with his hands. He kisses Drin’s face, and along his cheeks, closing his eyes and licking the skin, tasting him in the most extraordinary way, and then he kisses his way down Drin’s beard, down along his neck–with every assistance from Drin to get at whatever he wants to look at or lick or touch–and then he shifts down onto Drin’s chest. He spends time there, making sure Drin knows he likes it there. Drin is groaning, hips jerking, by the time Dance has left Drin’s nipples behind, they’re so sensitized and even sore. He licks his way down Drin, not caring if he looks absurd doing it, breathing in Drin’s skin, almost biting his way down the fur on Drin’s belly. When he reaches Drin’s shorts, he’s panting.
Drin reaches down and cups Dance’s chin. “Breathe now,” he says, tugging very gently, and Dance lifts his head away and follows the suggestion to come back up the bed, and lie down on his side next to Drin. “Easy,” Drin says to him, with his face about five inches away from the huge aroused pupils.
Dance puts up his hand, rests it on Drin’s jaw, strokes the stiff hair of his beard as if the texture fascinates him, looking at it. Then he looks at Drin’s chest, stroking the different tracts of hair into their normal order and direction, petting Drin’s body with his fingertips. It calms him, he’s not so wildly overstimulated. Drin lies on his side, facing Dance, and rests his arm across Dance’s waist, and he doesn’t get that wild jumpy reaction any more. He strokes Dance’s back a little, gently, and when he slides his hand under the band of the boxer shorts, Dance just sighs a little, eyes drooping half shut.
As Drin’s hand moves along under the shorts, stroking the hot, sweaty hip–and it’s a wonderful hip, indeed a Christmas gift of a pelvic crest–Dance rolls slightly away onto his back, making it easier to get to his belly, offering himself. He makes almost no sound at all when Drin’s touch finally makes him arch up, mouth open, and he gives the expiring sigh of another orgasm, one that’s been delayed long enough that it must actually hurt a little. His hand stutters along Drin’s belly, not even getting inside Drin’s shorts, and that’s more than enough to finish off the older man with a gasp that feels like it’s rattling his back molars.
“Ahhh hah aah hah,” Drin breathes noisily, unable to be any more quiet, and then he feels Dance’s hands on him, petting his chest and his neck anxiously.
Drin captures one of the hands, hugs it to him in reassurance. Once he can breathe again, he kisses the palm, deliberately and carefully, with purpose. He turns it over and kisses the back of the hand, across the knuckles, along the backs of Dance’s fingers, and then his fingertips.
This appears to be too much for Dance. He shifts his weight and throws himself across Drin, nudging his nose into Drin’s shoulder, flinging his arm tight around Drin’s waist and one leg wide across Drin’s legs, the powerful calf muscle pressing hard into Drin’s shins.
“It’s all right,” Drin says, lifting an arm that aches already, and stroking his fingers through the younger man’s hair, combing it back from his face. “It’s going to be good, Dance. I promise you.”
Dance gives a little groan. “Our Drin is kissing only, kissing, how does our Drin do this– and I come three times,” he says into Drin’s chest.
“Three times? Is that all?” Drin says, hearing the bleary amusement in his own voice. “Gotta work on that. You’re overdue, young man. You got orgasms to make up for. Years of ’em, judging by the look of you. And I’m going to enjoy wringing some decent yelling showstopping whoppers out of you, by God. I am going to love that. If I live through it.”
Dance gives a little puff of laughter into Drin’s chest. “Us either.”
“Two years before that flower bloomed for you, huh?” Drin says then.
Dance sighs. “Well, three if we count how long it took to try rooting cuttings of it, too,” he says.
“Do you think you can give me a few days–I mean, spare time, not messing with your rehearsals–to see if you like me?”
Dance gives another puff of laughter. “Drin,” he says, and for the first time he sounds tired, losing bits of his hard-won English, as if it’s been a long stressful day for him too, “Our Drin, we are so liking you now. We– I know our roomate will like–Drin–like you– like you a lot. Please stay for cooking breakfast, so happy if our Drin is staying tonight. Being so happy if our Drin is to stay. Making our Drin comfortable, yes trying hard. A few days, wow, that’s not just– not just–not me liking you. That will be–me– making all happy kinds of assumptions.”
“Will you help me pick out dish towels?” Drin says then, smiling.
“No,” Dance says, and that smile is rising in his eyes,”we have towels, we give you plenty! We– I mean I will–yes, I will pick out belts with our Drin so– so I don’t take so long to unzip the Drin pants for kissing. I will like doing that.”
Drin laughs then.