Besides, I'm getting to hold him the way I like to be held myself, and he's not complaining about it. His back is sweaty and warm, sealed up against my chest. Legs bent at the hip and knee, curled around mine and we're the proverbial spoons. My arms keep him tied close, holding his slim waist so he can't melt away--not that he wants to. No matter how much he might grumble later about me forcing him to cuddle, it's his hands that are clasped over mine, shouting for me to stay put. As if I'd go anywhere but where I am, reveling in this-which-is-now, almost better than what got us here in the first place.

I measure his breathing with my lips, pressed to the back of his neck. He's still inhaling erratically, probably being chilled by evaporating sweat and an adrenalin crash. Somewhere between orgasm and five minutes from now, his brain will kick into gear and he'll either push me away or start thinking about what just happened. Even my blonde self knows it was something besides fucking, which means he definitely knows. And even if he wanted it, initiated it and made sure we followed through, he's been conditioned to deny, to repress and to hide.

But he's not moving now, so I'll stay here, a strangler fig climbing the strongest tree I can find. I hope that image is just me being artistic and melodramatic and that I'm not really a parasite, but I never can be completely sure. In noisy moments I can puff up my self-esteem and convince myself that I'm all he needs and he obviously wants me here. Most quiet moments are filled with the same thing, me being sure of myself and sure of his wrecked wanting. Then there are times like these, where my blood is thick with hormones and endorphins and my cock is aching from being inside him and I'm not so sure. Please, god please don't let me be the sum of my biology. Let me be something besides cock, ass and mouth.

I hope my hands are at least as important. They work well to arouse and to soothe, and to paint and draw, but their most important function is to hold. I hold him up to wherever he wants to be. I pin him down when he would run amok. I hold him in when he would spill forth and lose himself in moments of anguish. I hold him out, extending him to the places he is afraid to go alone. He is held, captured but not captive, and instead of feeling exaltation at my victory I am terrified of making a mistake. He is far too Brian for me to err.

I suppose my fears are overblown; he obviously trusts me. If he didn't, then why am I guarding him tonight, when his soul is sorting out its various pieces? It's another wordless reassurance he gives me in his offhand manner. Here, he says, take care of this, would you? The impatient youth in me wants to help, despite the fact that I know that getting the dust of his being on my skin would be detrimental to both of us. Enough of me is older, wiser and less confident; that part keeps my hands where they are, holding him in. Cosmic duct tape, a living cast to give comfort and support.

His body twitches once, skin shuddering much like the hide of a horse beset with flies. I saw that in a park once and was fascinated with the musculature hidden just below the surface. Skin twisting, jerking and flexing as though a separate living being. There's nothing circling us now, so I can only imagine what sensation made him move like that. Perhaps it was a piece of that jigsaw puzzle sliding into place. Maybe it was a stray thought lighting upon his hip, annoying him by shifting fine hairs this way and that. I just hold him a little tighter and breathe in his scent, salty and strong with spent longing.

It's been long enough that I know that regardless of whether he moves or not, the next thing we'll be doing won't involve much beyond sleeping. My own body has spiraled down into exhaustion, taken there by a long and busy day, followed by a strenuous night out and in. It's warm enough that I'm not uncomfortable without the covers on top of me; his body heat is a welcome presence as it wraps around us. I don't want to move; I like this place we're at with its silence and stillness. There's a certain peace in its uncertainty; we could move apart but I would still be at rest. We could remain pressed together and find ourselves running in different directions. Or, we could stay right where we are, here. My want of an earlier hour has turned into a want for no reason, of no direction. I wanted him and got what I wanted. Now I want this and know that even if he takes it away, I still have it. Somewhere, anyway, tucked where he pointedly doesn't look.

Or perhaps he does, and has chosen not to mind.