counterpoint

[nsfw] liminal

blurb: here is a practice room (population: always 2).

→ nsfw set in their uni days

warnings: nsfw content

• • •

Here is a practice room that almost nobody uses.

It's on the farthest end of the highest level of the old Martin Hall, tucked away behind piles of rotting plywood chairs and broken plastic desks. If the battlefield of dust motes and debris don't deter wayward visitors, the padlock on the door just might.

There are only two keys in the world that match it. Brett holds one of them.

(Enter, stage right.)

This, here in the shapelessness of waiting, the silence in a room built for noise: this is sacred space. Take your shoes off at the door, leave the world and all its diversions behind. Come as you are. By these unspoken laws, he abides, every single time. Even for this one last time.

This, their cathedral of touch: it's the only place he will deign to get on his knees.

He shucks off the gown, presses his fingers over the pink hood to smoothen out the creases. It ends up tossed over his cap, tassels peeking out from under the black fabric—something to worry about later. After. Brett stands still and breathes.

There's the sound of faint footsteps approaching. The turn of a door knob.

Here is the other half of him, approaching.

(Enter, stage left.)

There's an elaborate ceremony at play, now. It begins when the door is closed, occupants locked in. It begins when Brett lifts a hand to the window frame, resting his forehead against the brown paper covering up the scenery beyond the glass, and closes his eyes.

Eddy reaches out for him.

Here is a hand on his waist. Brett lets his legs give way, parting for that seeking touch. This early in, and already, he is so wanting. So greedy, so hungry for it, starving. When another hand finds a place on his thigh, he shakes with the effort to stand still, to continue the charade and uphold the status quo.

They do it like this, front to back, whenever they meet together to drown in each other, both looking outward to ignore what lies within. They don't catch each other's eye, they don't turn around, and they don't ever speak. It's something like trust falls, like holding hands in the dark, like offering safe passage. It's necessary. It's essential.

It's what allows them to keep coming back to this liminal space. It's what allows them to forget, for a moment of feverish passion, that they shouldn't be doing this, not with each other. This clandestine meeting in the shadows: it's what allows them to thrive together under the sun. Moving forward and marching onward as—friends.

Platonic. The word is a crown of thorns on his brow. He fucking hates it.

But it's all they have left.

Eddy draws near, brings all the warmth of the dusky afternoon with him as he presses closer in a long line of delectable heat. A hand trails up, cups the hardening cock in Brett's pants, and god, but he aches for it. Wants no second wasted, not a single precious one of them.

Even in the practiced hush of the proceedings, they've learned to converse. There are other ways beyond the use of words, other languages to speak through. He moves his free hand, grasps Eddy's wrist, and squeezes.