A Tragedy With Tits

•

“I’ve got some meats for you later, if you’d like,” Tommy says innocently.

Dag closes the fridge door and looks at him. Tommy’s twisted around in the chair to make eye contact. He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“Later, huh?” Dag asks, plopping his breakfast ingredients on the counter. “You’re making me wait?”

“We’re helping Jan move stuff in his studio later today,” Tommy reminds him, glancing theatrically at his watch-less wrist. “We have to leave in… an hour.”

“Not nearly enough time to eat breakfast and your meats,” Dag agrees seriously.

Tommy’s nose wrinkles. Dag can tell he’s regretting the meats joke now that he’s thinking about it more, which simply means Dag’s going to double down on it.

“Maybe if you got up at a reasonable time,” Tommy says, taking a sip from a mug of what is no doubt his terrible instant coffee.

“There is no reason for me to be up before the sun,” Dag declares. “I know your meats will keep.”

“Okay okay,” Tommy’s nose wrinkles even more.

“Your cured sausage is my favorite.” Dag abandons his breakfast so he can drape himself over Tommy for a little bit.

“A cured sausage?” Tommy’s shoulders start to shake as he laughs.

“‘Nduja,” Dag rubs his beard aggressively against Tommy’s cheek, just to watch him pink up.

“If you’re saying my dick looks like ‘nduja, we’re going to have a fight,” Tommy giggles and tries to push Dag off him.

“Maybe I’m saying your dick is spicy,” Dag lets himself be pushed, enjoying the way Tommy’s back and shoulders flex as it happens.

“If my dick is spicy that’s a whole other problem,” Tommy snorts.

“You should let me taste and find out.” Dag gropes his bicep a little bit. “Last night was so long ago, I cannot remember.”

🪰

“Why not?” Lars asks.

“Not everyone is cool with gay percentages,” Dag can’t believe he has to explain this. “I don’t know much about this guy besides the fact that he’s hot.”

And from California. And plays the drums. And is funny. And when he smiles his entire face scrunches up.

Fuck.

•

Tommy’s hair is fluffy and curly, a mess on top of his head, and that devastating smile of his is now aimed at the middle aged woman behind the cash register. Dag watches them exchange small talk, watches Tommy pay for his terrible coffee. Tommy turns to them when he’s finished, and waves his arm as if to say ‘I’ll be outside.’ The door has barely swung shut again before Dag is following him.

Tommy’s shoulders are hunched up by his ears. He’s got a coffee in one hand and his cigarette case in the other, as he walks far enough away from the gas station for a smoke. Dag watches Tommy roll up those stupid little cigarettes every night, and pack them away for the next day. Tommy’s deft fingers moving quickly with the smoothness of a habit long practiced. Dag wants them in his mouth.

“Hello,” Dag switches to English and speeds up until he’s shoulder to shoulder with Tommy. “Trade you for a light?”

“Sure,” Tommy says immediately.

•

“Stop looking so sad about it,” Lars says, reaching over to dip some of his fries into Dag’s honey mustard. “Just ask him or something.”

“I’m not gonna ask him,” Dag hisses, startled.

That’s out of the question. What if—