Log:Ash Wednesday
From Literepetition
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Earlier on this day, at noon, he had lingered in the back of the church on campus and watched a small handful of Episcopal students receive the ash on their foreheads, the crosses smudged and hard to see afterward. Remember, O man, that you are dust and unto dust you shall return. The words faint, never spoken to him. Tom did not step forward, although there was nothing saying he couldn't.
He still arrived at room 23 early this afternoon by a full hour, to perform ablutions, even if there was no ash to wash away. There was dirt, there was the traces of smoke— those, gone now. There was also doubt, and fear. Those, perhaps not gone. But his grooming instincts have been played to the hilt; for one, his own person is the very picture of cleanliness (next to godliness, etc.), not to mention that he has spent more time not-styling his hair than usual, and his nails are clipped, his face shaved unfathomably close. He is, of course, wearing the best tailored clothes in his possession, no doubt after some agonizing decision making. Tom always gives fourteen year old girls and felines a run for their money, but this takes the cake.
It is close to the meeting time now. Boots off for the moment, he has waited on the bed half-consciously in a meditative pose, nearly the lotus, although one would hear no audibly murmured mantra from him, only seen his gaze staring into space. What he is waiting for— something that anyone might potentially long for, and dread, at once. But he has immeasurably complicated it by what he truly seeks out of this affair.
And Tom isn't the only one to have taken extra care in preparing to be here. It's a feat to get into an old uniform, get out of the house wearing it, then drive to a motel in the tail-end of winter looking like someone out of Paris in 1915. Fortunately, Jake has a long overcoat to cover most of the outfit. After parking the car, he heads to the usual room bearing a bag containing a small overnight kit and civilian clothes, among other essentials, and knocks quietly on the door, testing the handle soon after to see if it's locked.
Initially, no reply; Tom's eyes have widened. It's time. Hurry up— he manages to stand up and pulls his boots on, for all the good those will do. The light is on; his visitor should be sure that the room is occupied already. But Tom cannot muster speech at first, nor even properly answer the door. He undoes the lock and the flimsy chain at head height, and then backs away, turns around, arms folded. "... Come in," he says quietly, and might need to hope he is heard.
Either he's heard or the scraping of locks being undone signals that the door is open, because Jake enters regardless. Wearing the overcoat, there isn't much evident in the way of his attire aside from the ankle-high boots and slate-blue leggings beneath, visible when he walks or turns a certain way. A helmet is also tucked beneath his arm. He smiles when he spies Tom, closes the door and locks it behind himself. "Hello." The smile pulls wider when he allows himself to actually look at Tom, sizing the other man up appreciatively. "You look absolutely incredible." The bag is taken over to the bed and set down near the nightstand for later.
"You look..." While he's turned enough to be seen himself, Tom cannot quite look yet. Rather, he tries, a darting glance, and then looks away with embarrassment that doesn't suit his twenty years. He turns his eyes up, toward the ceiling, and then they close. "I'll... you, just tell me when." His voice is a feather whisper, and still his, but heavily laden with emotion.
An odd tone for something as simple as a costume. Jake hikes an eyebrow at it, but it doesn't stop him stripping off his coat and donning the helmet. The coat is tossed off to the side and he situates himself standing straight, heels together, arms at his sides like a soldier at attention. "You can look." The uniform is quite detailed and authentic, right down to the lacings of the boots and the leather pouches on the belt. The only thing it's missing is a rifle or handgun, really.
Slowly, Tom stills the previously rapid rise and fall of his chest, and brings his gaze down, though he covers his face with his hands while turning. Perhaps not to hide anything, only to steel himself. Another heave of breath, and then his hands slip away— he sees. He takes it in. The discoverers of the Rosetta Stone, the terra cotta soldiers, the Dead Sea Scrolls, could not have appeared more thunderstruck. "Sweet Jesus."
One step forward, and then, added: "My god." Tom has to sit down. He lands without much ceremony at the foot of the bed, and after some more staring, transfixed, he holds out his arms, like he would have the other kneel before him. His palms are open in supplication.
Jake can't help smiling, though it's somewhat bemused. It's still an odd reaction to match the odd tone of earlier, like he's somehow fulfilled a life's goal for Tom. Silly, really, though he tries not to show it. He's just pleased at the other man's face and he is indeed beckoned forward at the gesture, kneeling directly in front of his partner. "What?"
"Don't speak." Said while actually laying fingertips on the soldier's lips. Tom starts to fight a smile in return— or maybe not in return. Something else behind it. It's as though he is seeing Jake for the first time. If he's even seeing Jake himself. Which may be doubtful, because of what he begins to murmur, resting his hands at the other's elbows first, then starting to trace the contours of his face. "Vous vous souvenez de moi?..." Do you remember me? So quiet, his voice, every delicate nuance of the French perfectly articulated, almost effete, adoring. "Mon cher ami... mon bel ami." My dear friend. My beautiful friend.
It's probably fortunate Jake doesn't speak French, in spite of the outfit, otherwise his puzzled expression would be one of deep confusion. Tom knows he doesn't speak French. The German stays silent, at any rate, brow wrinkled in spite of his smile. Yeah, it's a little weird. Like Tom is seeing . . . someone. Someone not him, but someone dear and long-past. Except Tom isn't almost 100 years old.
Whatever last dangling shard of lucidity remains in his mind at the moment, it is enough to prevent the sudden shine in his eyes from being seen; Tom leans forward and embraces his soldier tightly before letting his eyes close and the tears fall. Exhaling, shakily. Even this requires some unimaginable control, and it is only lucky that this is the consummate master of same— otherwise, he could be sobbing openly. Something in him is aware that this other man does not understand and will not understand, and cannot be made to understand, and so he must not drive him away with this lunacy. But Tom still takes a minute to breathe, to weep without being seen, without making a sound. Feeling this body. It is the right one. Then— then— he raises a hand to his face, to dry it carefully, and when he is sure that his appearance will not be remarked upon except in the positive, he pulls back, trying to say something.
Something is very off, but Jake can't quite place it. He knows it's there, he can see and sense it, but he doesn't understand it. Any of it. He does return the embrace, but it has its own sort of hesitation to it, and when Tom pulls back, he watches the other man curiously, slightly concerned. "Are you all right?" he asks quietly.
"I'm more than all right," says Tom, and he sounds utterly genuine, not simply attempting to allay concern. He means it. Words finally spill out of him at greater length: "It looks perfect. I've been obsessed with that portion of history, and you really—" Swallowing. "You look right... from it. That's all I can think to describe the effect. It's a fantastic replica. It's spot on."
It's enough to convince Jake, at least. He smiles again and tilts his head slightly to one side. "What was it you said in French? I think I understood the last part." The words are fairly common French words that many people might know casually. Jake is rather curious about the first.
Hesitation, but not much. Surely Tom can be honest here; indulging nothing more than use of the appropriate language for the costume. "My dear friend. My beautiful friend. That was the last part." He does pause now, and as for the first part: "... Before that, 'you... are very... real...' No. It's hard to translate that phrase." It isn't. But they should move past it, or so Tom seems to indicate by how he pulls off the helmet and kisses the other both gently and yet with more passion— more unabashed passion— than ever felt before.
It doesn't sound right. Jake had heard "moi" in there, and he knows what that word is. "Vous" isn't that difficult either. But he doesn't press it immediately. How could he? He hasn't any ability to speak right now and doesn't fight for it, either. It's only after he's got a moment of breath that he does so: "What was the 'moi'?" Curious, not interrogative. He stays close, fingers trailing over Tom's throat, down his chest.
"Me— it's idiomatic," breathed as Tom nestles the side of his face by the other's and runs his hands over the fabric of the uniform with keen interest. This time, he's finally even worn a scent of his own, something almost floral but without losing all masculinity. A smile creeps across his lips, insolent in the source of its humor. "Enculez-moi. Now there's a phrase." His laugh is low, amused, even if nervous
This also seems to assuage Jake, who lets it drop. Not that last phrase, though. Nibbling at Tom's ear and then the side of his neck, he murmurs, "And what does that mean?" But it's only a moment's pause before he seems to make a connection and laughs suddenly, soft. He pulls his face back to grin directly in the other's view. "Ah-ha. Well aren't you the straightforward one?" It's said fondly as his thumbs stroke the other man's cheeks.
Tom— straightforward perhaps only in a foreign language. Or also times like these, when he is already ready for the plunge and the descent, and there is nothing left but to curse. "Very clever of the French. Having a verb for the one kind of fucking. And another verb for the other." No delicacy on the obscenity, never— he seems to take a perverse interest in that one syllable, though as he gives another kiss he loses some of the bravado. He lets go of Jake and leans back on the mattress in a guarded slouch; now, Tom has begun to think about more than the words, and rather the act.
"Very clever." Jake smiles, trying to be reassuring, knowing that no amount of reassurance will likely be enough. It's not like he wasn't nervous as hell his first time, either. "And like a clever French soldier, I came prepared—" he glances toward the bag left by the nightstand, then leans up to go nose-to-nose with Tom "— but let's take it slow. We've got all night." A slightly broader smile and then another kiss, gentle.
All through the remains of the day— dark as it already has become, this time of year— and all through the night, yes. Tom yields to the other's mouth and for all that he has postured through speaking bluntly of their goal, and for all that the uniform could have more than a touch of the absurd about it to a viewer, there is something startlingly clear in how this young man falls back; he is not solely virginal, but a romantic. No matter how he might deny.
And true to form, Jake seems quite willing to take his time, be romantic. He follows Tom down, then lets his lips begin to stray over the other man's throat to the collar of his shirt. Fingers glide up the hem and splay over abdomen and chest in long, sensual strokes. If one can arouse and relax at the same time, that seems to be his intent.
To some extent, it begins to work. Tom's fingers were fumbling at the uniform's buttons, replica buttons but maybe something about them is real for him, and now gradually they find greater coordination, though they continue to unfasten things quite slowly. Ritualistic, even. "Bel ami," he echoes from before. "Bel ami..." A pet name may have, at last, been found— though the degree of affection imbued suggests more than the speaker trying to be cute.
As though able to taste the words, Jake brings his head up to take Tom's mouth with his own, probing, affectionate. Even still, his breath is growing a little more audible— not startlingly so, but faint and slow rushes of air. His hand continues to explore the other's torso before it finally drifts downward, finding a button and zipper and unfastening them unhurriedly.
Tom kisses his lover with fragility and need intertwined while he shifts beneath him and finally pulls off the jacket of the uniform, including the pouches for rations and ammunition. "Those boots—" He indicates them with his own leg drawing up the side of one. A request: "Turn over. Let me take them off."
A smirk, but Jake does roll onto his side and then onto his back, scooting himself further up on the mattress for comfort. It's not a usual request, but hey, he did dress up for Tom. He's indulgent.
Perhaps overly. Someone less patient might easily have halted Tom in his tracks and asked what the hell he was on about. But as it is, there is no stopping yet. With care, Tom manages to get each boot dislodged, and then slides them off, with relative speed that implies he does not harbor any secret podophilia. His demeanor is more telling of something like pure, loyal devotion, the housewife who unlaces her husband's shoes and brings over his slippers every day when he returns from town.
It's a nice gesture, at least, if no slightly antiquated. Then again, this is Tom, who seems a rather antiquated fellow in some regards, and Jake is dressed in something out of the early 20th century. He smiles anyway, hands tucked behind his head, just watching the other man. Once his feet are bare, he reaches over to take a bottle of lubricant and a box of condoms out of the bag on the floor. The items are set on the nightstand for easy access later and then the German is sitting up to take Tom's face between his hands and kiss him again.
Flickers of anxiety in his eyes, now— brief, though clearly from what has just appeared— and Tom returns the kiss with added fervor, perhaps to quell, cool the flash that ran through his blood, although quelling will not likely happen any time soon. He relaxes down supine and pulls Jake on top again, seeking to be pinned— when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, when I am pinned and wriggling on the wall— and held down and made immobile and safe in that confinement, purring.
No resistance or argument from Jake. He settles atop Tom, pressing his weight down slightly— not enough to crush, but firm enough to be somewhat confining. His kisses take on an edge that is not violent but still less subdued, more passionate. After a few moments of this, his hands seek to strip Tom entirely of anything below the waist and then his hand starts to explore, running over territory all-too-familiar and slipping further down to occasionally touch relatively new places.
This elicits a hushed, restrained groan, and then with hands beginning to tremble again, Tom works on getting the pair of them out of the remains of their clothing, half modern and half Modern, fabric slipping and tangling and eventually disappearing off the side of the bed. No costumes now, not from either, though even in his nakedness Tom remains a pristine presentation, groomed as he is and his figure nowhere near as hairless as a Patroclean beauty but finally, finally aware of its youth and not of its age. Automatically, he shrinks faintly from where Jake's fingers have started to roam, but with a deep breath he lets misgivings be kissed away, and does not flinch again.
Jake is quite knowledgeable of what he's doing and very gentle. His kisses only pause now and then to watch the other's reaction or take a breath. "Relax."
Something wordless, not a no but startlement, query. Giving way. It is not so unnatural. Not so unnatural at all. Submissive.
More. More.
"Christ. Should I turn..."
"Not yet."
"Just do it."
"I'm not going to 'just do it'. This isn't Nike. ... Try to relax."
It's a very gradual process. Still, frightened— ecstatically frightened, if these things are possible, that sharp cry, head raising. This is right. It's right because Jake arrived and brought a ghost with him. It began as a haunting, it will end as a possession. Desire, fear, both at once and not without some amount of pain, for all that they have striven to dull it. One will win out, and probably desire, because eyes have turned up. Panting with the rhythm of something besides nerves.
Some pause.
After a few moments, finally speech again: "Christ." And another nod. A lower moan. Oddly, the next words that spring to Tom's lips are intoned from an altogether different faith, whispered to himself so quietly they might only just be caught at the very edge of hearing. "Om, shantih, shantih." He repeats this while waiting for his lover to continue, and even after, until something— something— changes. None of the sensation, but his response. He has leapt; he has caught the breeze; it has taken his lifetime and maybe then some, but he is finally giving something of himself without posturing or even a drive to do so, and he is finally receiving something that he can accept without insult. The power— the gift— the balance— the scales are even.
"You've got it, Tomcat. "See?"
"Oh, fuck."
This isn't something that should be pounded right off the bat. Even still, it's been so long since Jake was able to have someone like this, it's doing the trick. Of course he's been with Tom in just about every other way imaginable, but this is something different.
Tom grows more vocal still. It may have occurred to him that he could stifle himself, but this is doubtful. He is not even here right now. This bed is a different bed. It is smaller and creaks and the sun is still sinking outside but this is a memory, a memory of when he laid on the mattress and thought of him and the day they spent in the city, and they've retired to their separate quarters and he is so alone, wishing not to be alone, wishing the bed held two and not one, but this time— this time it's right. This time, ô bel ami, you are here, and war will not take you, and the sea will not cradle you, you will cradle me instead, and Tom
- slowly
- falls...
Some time has passed, and he has not noticed, but his voice has been carrying the both of them until this moment where everything hangs and he's almost there, just one more thrust one more push one more tug anything—
It comes, so to speak. All three at slightly different times, but they do happen, tilting Jake over the edge as well. It takes a certain degree of control but Jake manages. Instead a loud cry, a jerk, and then. It's not the best he's had, but it's satisfying. He sags with his weight supported by the headboard, catching his breath.
It takes Tom in turn, moments later, falling silent if only because silence is demanded by nirvana. Maybe somewhere downstairs the piano can be heard, playing Satie— no. That was then, this is not then. This is better than then, better than shaken memory. Eyes fluttering shut, he lets his face land upon the pillow again. He's dazed. Possibly in shock, though not dangerously.
A few moments of stillness before Jake finally withdraws, still careful. The condom is wiped off, tied, then discarded, and then the German collapses on his side, panting and rather warm, lazy, smiling. "You did it," he murmurs to Tom, kissing his shoulder warmly. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" Teasing.
For his first recovering breaths, Tom still is mute, eyes still remain closed. He moves his hips a hair, and then more than a hair— and then he groans. "Oh, fucking Christ." This one is not going to want to walk any time soon, is he. At last he opens his eyes and he turn his head, that aching too— everything aches, though none so much as— "Ah." He just tried it again. That is the last try. A smile suddenly shows itself. It's beaming.
"Sorry," intones Jake, smiling as well but not without sympathy. "It . . . you'll be a little sore." While he doesn't regret anything, he does feel a twinge of remorse for that. "Are you all right? Can I get you anything?"
"Stay right here," is all that Tom requests. He reaches his hand across the small space between them, follows the curve of cheekbone and jaw and chin, then rests his fingers there while he stares ahead, in dreamspace. "I'm..." All right? "New."
That garners a raised eyebrow from Jake, curious and slightly amused. "New?" He's heard a few post-coital descriptors, but "new" is not one of them.
A broader grin, a smug quote: "Call me but love, and I'll be new-baptized?" offers Tom, and now he may be able to stand their distance no longer; with a grunt and knit brow, he pulls himself closer and the pain be damned. He kisses his lover, really his lover now, through and through. He kisses him with adoration.
For his part, Jake does scoot closer a bit as well, meeting Tom halfway and sinking into that kiss willingly. Another follows after that one's concluded before he grins, combing his fingers through Tom's hair. "What shall we call you, then, Romeo?" he inquires.
"From where I'm standing—" or lying— "I'm afraid that I'm more Juliet. O happy dagger—" Tom's expression is wicked as he takes Jake's wrist and slips that hand down and down into fairly provocative territory. He does not complete the quote this time. In fact, his gaze softens, and he lets Jake's hand go though it may stay there if it will; he rests his own hand on the other's shoulder and murmurs, "But that intrepid protagonist dies. You— will not."
"Well, I'd hope not," Jake responds, raising an eyebrow again. It's an attempt to be playful— only there's something just the slightest bit odd about it. Something that, for some reason, makes him think of earlier, when all this started: Tom's strange behavior that made Jake think the other man had been finding a long-lost friend. "Are you all right, Tom?" It's the only question he can think to ask; he can't seem to shake the feeling that something is not quite all right, even though by all accounts, it is. His hand, however, doesn't move from where it was placed.
The question is answered with a steady, heartfelt kiss, perhaps as much to settle his own mood as to dispel any concerns of Jake's. "I'm... in pain." Tom expels breath quickly, an embarrassed laugh, mouth pinched in a half-smile almost girlish. "But I'm all right. I'm really all right." His tone relaxes. "I mean it." And he must— because his features carry just a shadow of the earlier haunting, but he may be banishing it from his mind, aware from the inquiry that his behavior is strange.
"Are you sure?" Jake sounds like he doesn't really want to pry, but he's driven to do so. "You just seem a little . . . I don't know. I can't quite . . ." No, he really has no words to describe it— or he does and thinks they sound too absurd. But it's there, he knows it is.
Forming a— a coy pout? Tom is giddy. Hopeless. "Are you asking if I'll only let you fuck me after you've gotten dressed up?" He even nudges the other's nose with a finger. "No. No, it is not a requirement."
Not quite what he was asking, but Tom's mood and manner is too much to not smile at. "Well, that's a relief," Jake chuckles in return, kissing that prodding finger before wrapping both arms around his partner. "But you just seem very attached to . . . that era." He still can't bring himself to say it the way he's thinking it. It's too difficult to describe.
"Attached? I'm a history fanatic as much as yourself. There are many eras," retorts Tom, curling into the embrace. Reconsidering: "Perhaps not quite so much as yourself. I might collect antiques, but I lack anything like costumes."
"Mm." Jake offers a kiss, brief but affectionate. Being unable to describe the reason for his unease, he decides to let it drop for now. "The hat looks good on you," he murmurs. "Speaking of costumes, that is. It suits you."
Considering: "All hats are costumes, perhaps. All clothing is." Shifting— no. Still difficult. It will probably be difficult for a while. The compliment does stir something in Tom, though, and he may be ill suited to movement, but he can still press his lips to the other's and let tongues glide tantalizingly across each other, thirsty but patient enough to wait for that thirst to be quenched if need be.
Noting the difficulty in movement, Jake again feels a mild twinge of guilt, but he seems readily apologetic in that open kiss. He's still too spent himself to be attempting anything, but he holds nothing back in the gesture. "Then I suppose it's good we're naked, mm?" he mentions once he has the ability.
"It is," murmurs Tom, still somewhat absorbed in the sensuousness of their contact— not that he has never been before, but especially now. He presses himself closer, as much as he can, seeking touch, searching to be held and owned and claimed. To stake his own claim, that way. They have each other now. However dangerous a revelation that might be.
A quiet chuckle that sounds more like a purr than a mirthful sound. Jake nudges and kicks until he's got the covers over the both of them, then twines his arm tightly around Tom, curls up as close as he can. Then it's back to the kisses, languid but sweet and probing, in spite of his own tiredness. He seems content to lavish attention and affection this way, for now.
Calories have been burned and the dinner hour must have begun to approach, because Tom has the sudden realization, "I'm starving," spoken between breaths, between the meeting of mouths. During the moments that his eyes drift open, he appears utterly enthralled, and when they fall shut again, he is patently lustful within the limitations of their circumstance.
"I knew I was forgetting something." Namely food. Jake brought just about everything else except food. "This gloriously classy place probably doesn't have room service, does it?" Which means he'll need to go out and get food if they've any hope of keeping their energy.
Soft, his pitch not raising but his tone certainly turning toward coquette: "Sometime, we will go back to the hotel in New York. Maybe a better one. Where room service is a hundred dollars a plate, and we'll spend it all. And we'll fuck on silk sheets. But if you're very helpful and brought us back something soon, we can also do without the silk sheets for the next round." Tom arches his brow suggestively. He is certifiable— or experiencing the afterglow of a lifetime.
Jake can't help but smile at that, though it's the lighthearted but oddly twisted smile of someone who is speaking to a crazy friend. "The next round?" He brushes a hand over Tom's cheek and jaw. "You will need to be able to walk and sit down tomorrow, Tomcat." His hand slides down the other man's back, down past his hips, squeezes, kisses the other man's lips. "Any requests?"
A flash of disappointment, or nearly, crosses Tom's features, saying walk and sit? Not hardly! But he does not say as much, simply realizing, blinking, "I have the most unearthly strong desire for barbecue. Real barbecue, from home. But odds are ten to one that nothing up here does it right..." He ponders this, closes his eyes gently at the other's touch. "In lieu of that, anything you like."
Giving a low hum at the thought— barbecue sounds really good to him, too— Jake offers another kiss. "I would drive all the way down to St. Louis for you." Another kiss. "Someday, Paris. And London, and all of Europe." Then he starts to pull away to get dressed and venture out in quest for food.
"You wouldn't want to go there. St. Louis. You'd have the wonderfully insurmountable task of handling my family." For once, Tom manages to sound entirely flippant in that remark, and not bitter. Although, in a less glowing moment, this would not be the case. He lets the other go and stays lying down, winding the sheets about himself tightly. The bed is much colder now. "You do have real clothes, I hope." A faint grin. It's doubtful that he will mind waiting here, exquisitely exhausted and something about the prospect of having food fetched— the starry romance of it is palpable.
Digging about in the bag that bore the bottle and box now resting on the nightstand, Jake produces just such things and starts to put them on, grinning. "I could pop down to the local Indian place dressed as a World War I French soldier, but I don't think they would appreciate it," he chuckles. He doesn't dally in dressing— the room is cold— and after adjusting his suspenders and pulling on coat and hat, he wanders over to the bed and leans down to kiss Tom again. "I'll be back."
The faintest hair prickling— you will be back— he will. Tom returns the kiss, settles down after, and regards the other with utmost... it's warmth. It's— a kind of love. Perhaps not as he would term it, and with no thought given as to how Jake feels on that account, but his soldat, his bel ami— he is back, and will be back again.
And thus was acquired Indian food. Like the huntsman triumphant, Jake returns bearing a bag with styrofoam containers that smell quite tantalizing. Beneath his arm is a thermos of tea brewed quickly at home and beneath the other arm are a few bottles of water. He would have possibly gotten gin, were he legally capable of buying it. After a quiet knock, he jiggles the door's handle, finally managing to nudge it open. "I return," he announces.
"State oooof, emergency—" The television, dimly audible as having been on before, is rapidly turned off, but not without some final notes heard from songstress Björk. Also not without the fleeting glimpse of her face, the MTV logo in the corner, and Tom very possibly— not definitely, but possibly— singing along, cigarette in hand while he's managed to sit up in bed. With a startled movement as the sound and sight cease, he turns quickly to the ashtray to put out his light and then cast a glance up to grin at the conquering hero. "Thank god."
Closing the door behind him, Jake brings the bounty over to the bed and seats himself on the edge of the mattress. The bag is set within easy reach of Tom and the thermos and water bottles placed on the nightstand. "I brought lamb and naan and water and tea," he announces. A pause. "Were you singing?" Yes, he caught that.
There is just the fraction of a pause in return, and after a brief cough to clear his lungs— as much as they can be by now— Tom folds his arms and replies smoothly, "No, you were catching the dulcet tones of an Icelandic experimental musician, and that's entirely it." His gaze is daring, challenging. Openly lying. And he does say honestly: "A man can watch MTV if he pleases. I think."
"A man can do anything he pleases, as long as he's doing no harm," Jake agrees with a grin, leaning over to offer a brief, fond kiss. "I didn't know you like Björk." He starts digging through the bag, retrieving takeout containers and plastic utensils and handing some of these to Tom before reaching down to shuck off his boots.
Excitement, relief, in how the kiss is returned, though this time it's perhaps marred by tobacco; and then Tom gingerly scoots his way forward toward the food just enough to mostly reach it on his own. "Well, I like some contemporary music. If it's unusual, creative enough. She certainly is. I could burn you a disc of some things?" he offers, shrugging while he opens one of the containers. "Christ, I have never been this hungry in my life."
There's an agreeable sound from Jake as he stands up to strip off his outer wear. This is carelessly discarded at the foot of the bed and, dressed in suspenders, a button-down, and a pair of brown corduroys. Once comfortably dressed down, he flops on the bed next to Tom and sits up against the headboard. "I have some Björk, actually, but not much. I wouldn't mind a disc." He sets his Fedora on Tom's head playfully. Convenient hat rack, that!
"Then a disc there will be— hello." Said glancing up at his new, albeit only, decoration. And then keeping it on, Tom tucks in to some of the lamb with the apparent appetite of a famine survivor. He still must be in a mood unlike any other. Between bites, he casts a look at Jake and comments, "You are... hm. Always so sharp." Obviously in the complimentary sense.
"I like to look my best," responds Jake with a smile. "It makes up for all those other times when I'm working in the dirt. Which I admittedly don't do much of right now, but someday it will be my life." He tucks into his food ravenously but neatly, managing not to give off the appearance of being a complete slob.
Tom notes, sounding amused but meaning it, too, "Then you will have precisely the life I would admire— working with your hands, and also your mind." These are indeed not St. Louis ribs but the local curry house is certainly nothing to sneeze at, and Indian cuisine seems to be a recurring theme for them.
Another smile from Jake, pleased, and he's quiet a moment as he chews. "What do you see yourself doing in five years?" he asks as he spears a bit more meat from his own food.
Usually, this kind of question provokes a dour reply; while Tom is not blatantly self-destructive to the degree of many more colorful characters on campus, he does seem very much not interested in picturing himself anywhere in five years. Either because he will be doing something he hates, or he will have smoked and drunk himself into an early grave. As it is, in his current condition he admits with a /grin/, "I have no idea. I would like to be published and living abroad, free as the proverbial bird."
That grin must be contagious, because Jake is returning it. "That sounds wonderful," he remarks. "I'd love to live abroad. America is fine for what it is, geographically and culturally, but the rest of the world has so much history. This is just a tiny piece." A brief pause and another grin. "I guess it's a case of 'the history is more interesting across the pond'."
"It is. There are certainly intriguing portions of American history itself, too— but I am a consummate europhile, no question about it..." Tom waits to speak again until he has scraped his takeout box clean with the plastic fork. While he is remaining very still where he's seated, of necessity, the rest of his movements are filled with the energy that only endorphins can supply. "But your plans. Where do you expect to study? Where do you expect to travel?"
"Everywhere," says Jake with a wistful look. "Germany, Holland, Iceland, Israel, India, South America, Australia, England. Anywhere there has been civilization, really." Finishing off after a few bites of naan, he closes up his container and reaches for the thermos of tea. "Are you planning to just travel wherever, or settle somewhere?"
Settle. The word seems troublesome because Tom makes a small grimace at it. "I will hopefully find some essentially permanent residence, but it won't be in America if I have any say. And I'd prefer any domestic or local responsibilities to be at a minimum. I won't be... tied down." He frowns at his own words, too, and then amends, "And I don't really mean that in the sense of personal attachment, strangely enough. I... need attachment." A stunning thing to say, and he clears his throat before adding, expression growing more or less shy, "Perhaps I need to need, more than I need others to need myself... Christ, that's a selfish evaluation, nevermind."
Instead of making Jake frown or go quiet, he grins again. "Are you a needy bastard, Tomcat?" he asks, teasing. "I wouldn't have taken you for the type. But everyone needs something in life." After a sip of tea, he leans his shoulder against Tom's lightly. "I'm attached to you," he admits with a smile.
"Are you..." echoes Tom, taking a water bottle and cracking it open, sipping carefully. Quite frank: "I have felt attached to you ever since..." No time stamp. "... You did me the favor of getting me home." Almost a month ago, now, perhaps more. "You've been— you're noble. A prince among knaves..." He trails off and drinks a lot of water, now, evidently parched from both the spices in the lamb and their earlier activity.
Something about the wording really puts a smile on Jake's face. He lowers his head to kiss the bared shoulder next to him and murmurs, "Thank you." Then he raises his head a little further, nibbles at Tom's neck. Parched? Him? Nah.
Tom certainly notices that, and tilts the brim of the fedora off of his brow and turns slightly in offering of a kiss, the sheet that he had drawn up his waist slipping, his legs pushing it away further as he twists. "Well, guten tag, mein Herr..." Reflected in the mirror across the room, he might see the pair of them, if he had eyes for anything besides Jake— but there they are, the German every inch the academic gentleman and Tom his slimmer, nude counterpart, poised next to him somewhat like a pet. Tom brushes his nose against the other's and admits sotto voce, "You're very accommodating, but I have to tell you something."
"Mmm." There's still the faint taste of cigarettes on Tom's lips, but there's also Indian food and water. Jake doesn't seem to mind kissing this, slow and sensual. Once it ends, he opens his eyes, watches the other man's face from close quarters. "What?"
While nothing much in his tone changes, there is still that spark in Tom's eyes that seems to appear whenever he is about to say something filthy— either by others' standards, or his own. Something about waxing obscene in his description here is safer, even if moments before his manner was all moonlight and candles. "Take your time if you want, but I— wished you'd fuck me again the second you slipped out." He lets that sentence hang but clearly has more to say.
Oh-ho-ho. Tom is a butt-slut. Jake can't help but grin, amused, brushing the tip of his nose against his partner's. "I've created a monster," he murmurs. "But you don't want to overdo it the first time." Really. Really. Another kiss, a nuzzle; he seems to be waiting for the rest.
"Maybe not, but if it's hurting now, half of that is just missing you. Already. Missing this." A coaxing ploy by Tom's hand on front of the other's pants, starting to open them while no effort is made yet to remove anything else. His breath is heavy, insistent. "You at least deserve something. Going out— buying dinner— letting a lady wait—" He tsks, and then he can no longer keep his mouth closed when he isn't speaking. "You should have something in return."
A lady. Jake grins again, something short-lived thanks to the distraction below his waistline. Not that he's not enjoying it. "I didn't do it to get something in return," he responds quietly. "I have you." He can't deny that he's interested in what Tom is offering, though. No, it should be fairly obvious under the man's hand that there is definite interest there. So should the kiss that follows.
Despite the fact that this time didn't involve as much physical activity on Jake's part, he's still rather drained. It takes him a few moments longer to recover but when he does, he lets out a quiet, breathless laugh. Wiping his hand on the sheet between them, he sighs contentedly. "Tom." It's the only word he says, but there's so much pleasure and joy in the utterance that it's all he really needs to say.
Though Tom similarly works the sheet in between his fingers meticulously, he pauses, tilts his head and with another strained effort, dips it to take the other in his mouth briefly— to clean, to taste with less suddenness. And, more willful than during the previous unfortunate incident, he is able to get down what he gathers. He raises his head, then, masks any wincing and offers Jake a grin, secretive, private, just theirs. Just this. "Yes?"
With his eyes closed, Jake can't really see where Tom's mouth is headed until it's there. The suddenness and shock of it chokes an almost whimper-like sound from his throat— not of protest but of approval. Then he's wrapping arms around the other man, grateful, appreciative. "You're fantastic," he whispers. "It's so good to see you this way."
"You're welcome— wilkommen? No, that's only the greeting..." Tom considers, and he folds himself into the embrace, whistling softly. Wilkommen, bievenue, welcome, Fremde, étranger— "Find the remote? See what's on..." Probably nothing good, but that's what his gift for the biting remark can help. He smiles still. The expression cloud nine does not begin to suit. They may need to invent a whole extra pantheon of clouds for his spirits.
"Bitte," Jake responds, tipping languidly onto his back and stretching out his arm in search of the remote. His hand wraps around it just as he happens to glance down at himself and Tom, grinning. "We are leaving quite the workout for the cleaning service." As if they haven't seen it before. A simple click of the button flips the TV on.
Faintly rolling his eyes, maybe the smallest bit ashamed— though if so, nothing like he might usually be: "Indeed... perhaps." Tom's tone is sleepy, not falling asleep but with all the laziness of the cat that found its cherished sunbeam. There will be no prying away from the sunbeam, either. He rests his head upon Jake's arm and lets him choose the channel. Silently, he appears to think something over, and finally remarks, "I am something like your lover, aren't I."
After settling on a channel— look, crab fishing!— Jake uses a corner of the sheet to wipe off first himself and then Tom before sinking into the pillows contentedly. "'Something like'?" he remarks, amused, turning to kiss the other's forehead. "Yes." The last is said in a more subdued tone, fond.
"I suppose, as I have learned in Greek, that more properly, you would be the erastēs, which is the lover, and I the erōmenos, the beloved," Tom pontificates with an equally entertained expression, "but then, we lack a twenty year age difference. Christ, the Greeks." His gaze flickers. In terms of the love whose name he at least dare not speak, this may be the closest he's come, and he's still backed away. But none of this disturbance takes hold. He has moved on in a satisfied instant: "You should let your sister know you'll be staying the night. At least, I will be. It's up to you," he taunts, not at all unkind.
"Mm, really? And what would you do here all by your lonesome?" Jake makes no attempts to get his phone. Either he's too comfortable or Mina already knows he wasn't planning to be home tonight. Since he brought an overnight kit, it is perhaps the latter— though both could not be excluded.
With a feigned pout that quickly becomes rather more serious, not a pout at all: "Mourn your absence." Tom turns his face up, shadowed partly by the fedora still, though it's been knocked in a few directions at this point. He gives Jake's jaw a feather kiss, or two, or three, stares blankly at the television. Commercials... logos... rolling, frigid waves.
The warmth, the exertion, the utter ease in which Jake finds himself now lends well to the desire for sleep. His eyelids are already drooping, muscles relaxing, but he still seems at least somewhat attentive. "I couldn't sleep knowing I'd left you here alone in a cold bed, eromenos," he rumbles in reply, stroking his thumb over Tom's shoulder absently. "It is a good thing I told Mina not to expect me back tonight."
"I am not a Greek," says Tom in gentle amusement at the appelation, tapping his finger on the other's chest, following the curve of pectorals and curling through the scattering of hair there. "And I am glad to not have anyone expecting me back."
"So am I." Jake's voice sounds lazy, muddled. He really is tired and rather against his will, his eyelids have drifted closed. An effort is made to kiss Tom's forehead and it succeeds, but the German's head remains where it is even after his lips have left the spot. He's just too tired to move it. A deep sigh; he seems to be drifting, though not intentionally.
There is a short laugh— a laugh— from Tom, whose mind seems somewhat more active at the moment. He manages to take the remote and turn down the volume halfway before he falls mostly limp himself. Sleep, proper, may not sink in for a good while, with the pair of them sitting up like this; but it is enough to watch the television with half-lidded gaze and slowness of breath. And warmth. And closeness.
Remember, O man, that you are dust, and unto dust you shall return. But not yet. Tom has found something living.
