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“Can I join you?” he asked horribly unsure.
“Ugh, don’t be fucking weird, of course you can if you can bring yourself to touch my disgusting body,” Joq said muffled under the covers.
Chris couldn’t help his laughter. He took off his clothes, got into bed and dragged Joq against his front. He inhaled his smell, pressed his skin against Joq’s shirt, ignored the discomfort of his come drying and flaking in his groin.
“I love your body,” he whispered.
“Ugh, shut up and go to sleep or get up and have a shower, I can feel that,” Joq said and pushed back against Chris’ groin with his ass.
Chris pulled him closer with a smile. They were going to be okay.
12
One year later…
Chris stepped over the debris littering the entryway, his eyes searching the living area for Joq. He spotted him out by the pool, scouring the edges, his eyes flicking up to the horizon every now and then. Chris watched for a moment and followed his gaze to the stretch of their manicured lawn the size of soccer pitch to the bay beyond. He looked back to the thin material of his white shirt, the hint of sweat soaking the fabric.
“Busy day?” he called as he came outside.
Joq looked over his shoulder, his smile small and real; Chris could imagine the crinkle of his eyes under the aviators.
“Oh, you know, fighting with the designer on how best to maintain the bloody staircases,” he replied.
Chris grinned and came up behind him, crouched down so he could kiss him hello.
“Maybe leave the old ones?” he said when he pulled back.
“That’s what I said.”
It was a restoration more than a renovation, and their designer had a few opinions about that. But he and Joq were in love with the place—it was early twentieth century and it felt it too; you could almost feel the roaring parties that must’ve happened in the house, on the lawn and by the pool in the twenties. They didn’t want to lose that, just give it a facelift. Their designer thought they were wasting prime Brighton real estate; “Gut the place and start again. Better yet, tear it down and build a new place.”
“You are familiar with heritage laws, right?” Joq had said to that.
To which the designer had retorted, “Money talks.”
Chris wanted to fire him, but Joq liked him, said he was actually the best, and well, Chris deferred to his judgement on it—Joq wanted to manage it and if he was happy to do battle every day, so be it. Besides, according to Joq, when he actually did his job, he was so knowledgeable about the period that when they had to change something completely—like the wallpaper in the bedrooms, the fixtures in the bathrooms—he knew exactly where to get authentic replicas, the perfect patterns and styles to fit the aesthetic.
“What are you doing?” Chris smiled as he stayed in a crouch, his hands dangling over his knees as a soft breeze kicked up and lifted his suit jacket gently.
“They knocked off for the day, but I wanted to see what was under the grout. Look at this,” Joq ran a palm over the patch he’d exposed on the side of the drained pool. Tiny square tiles in turquoise blue with a glossy sheen. “Cool, right?”
“It really is,” Chris scratched one with his fingernail. “You want to keep it?”
“Definitely,” Joq gave him a big smile. “I mean, I love it, but the added bonus is going to be Henrique’s face.”
Chris laughed. “He’s going to kill you.”
“Yep.”
“You want to go out for dinner?” Chris asked and stood, stretched his back.
“We can do that,” Joq replied. “Or order in and chill.”
Chris looked down. He could see his reflection in Joq’s sunnies, his body elongated in the image.
“Maybe I can boss you around a bit,” Joq added.
Chris was not going to squeeze his dick.
