When Love is Bitter (2) NOT CANON (Patreon)

Nicolai is all lust, wrapped in sun kissed skin and the pretty face of an Abernathy. Desire is hot in his bones, spreads up his childish grin like a red-blooded fever.  I hear it in his laugh, I see it when he moves his hips, when he sinks his head into his palm and smiles boyishly. 

"I'm never dishonest about my intentions." 

—

There's a small bible peeking from his pocket as he climbs into my truck, and he pulls yesterday's gymbag of baseball gear in with a grunt.  I let him settle it under his feet on the floorboard.

"Thanks for saving the day," he chirps, still in his Sunday best, "I swear I did not know Lynn Maddox went to our church.  Has she always gone here? I tried to call Toby to save me from her reign of terror, but he's always at work." 

"You're so full of shit," I hum, help him settle his bag — ignore the way his hands fold under his chin as he bats his eyes with a playful thank you.  "There's only one church in Jameson. Where else would Lynn go? Her dad is an elder."

He pulls the Bible from his pocket and delivers it on the dash with a thump. 

"I didn't know," Nic snorts, "isn't there like, Catholics? Methodists?  She could've been a Jehovah Witness, for all I knew.  How was I supposed to know?" He pauses, jabs a finger into my chest, "You don't even go to church. How did you know?" He's laughing again.

If I heard the phrase of a wolf in sheep's clothing, I would think of him.  He doesn't even know it, himself. He just wears his boyish skin, his happy smile, and doesn't even know how much he's loved.

There's so much feigned innocence wrapped around his desire, so much sensuality hidden in the drag of his finger that's still pressing the button of my flannel into my sternum; sometimes I forget that every touch —

it isn't purposeful. 

"I guess it's a little hard to decipher someone's religious denomination when their tongue is in your mouth."  I scoff, clear my throat, and Nic shrugs to that,

"Can't believe I got slapped inside of a church," he tugs at the buttons of his shirt collar, resting his head against the seat, "oh wait, I can. I should start a journal of slap locations."  He winks, pretends to pen down the time and date of the pink mark across his cheek.

He laughs and I chuckle without real humor behind it, and when his eyes slide to mine, his smile falls.

"Nic..."

"I didn't mean to hurt her," he says, when his false laughter fades.  His eyes are still bright, still circled by the same doe-like lashes, "...She said it was for fun." He blinks, and then grins ruefully down at this hands, "There's nothing fun about hurting someone. They don't get that."

"You know... They're lying when they say it's for fun.  Don't you think you should calm down a bit, with them?"  I ask him, ignore the swelter the slap left behind against his cheek that seems to be fading, "I'm just trying to give you some guidance, as your friend." 

He ignores me, like he does when he can't make something into a joke. 

"There's always feelings involved, Nic," I sigh, start the engine.  "You've got to realize, with people-- there's always feelings motivating them when it comes to intimacy."

"Intimacy and sex are two different things."  His voice is serious, carries a weight of indignation. "Two different things. I'm having sex. I'm never dishonest about my intentions."

"Whatever you want, Nic." I try to smile, "I'm just telling you, they're lying and saying it's okay so hopefully-- they can change your mind about them."

He's quiet, for once.  I wrap my fingers around the base of his neck and squeeze for reassurance, a touch to say that I don't want to fight.  My hand is darker against his skin, coffee and sun-kissed cream. He is so free of this taste that I've become dependent on; unburdened by the bitterness in my mouth, in my belly.

"Sex and emotions go hand in hand, Nic. There's always romantic feelings hiding there."

The engine rolls loudly, and Nic's head turns.  My hand drops. I can see him watching the gravel beneath us.

"No there's not." 

His eyes close.

—

That doesn't stop our teenage years from happening, from the soft exchange of girls he sleeps with — hoping, waiting for him to change, wishing they could break past his shell because maybe; maybe he'd come to need them in time. Maybe he'd stop laughing, close the distance, reach for them in the morning.  His popularity dwindles.

"Are you any different? I mean, really."  Nic snorts, passing me a picture of my mom and I at a construction rally three years before, "You look exactly the same. I wish I was tall." 

I've never seen someone so full of want and so alone. I've never seen someone so content with both.  The town is starting to ostracize Nic as the town manwhore.  We're only eighteen, and I can see confusion staining Nic when he watches past heartbreaks intertwine their fingers with men who kiss their foreheads, meet their parents.  Confusion turns to despondency, to jokes about being alone forever that he can't really laugh at. 

For a man so wrapped in desire, I don't think he's ever felt love. 

"I guess it's just not in my cards," He shrugs it off, and laughs up at me.  He places the picture back down on the mantel. "Oh well."