The offer to come back to bed is pure temptation, desire for the man as well as the distraction it holds. Ismael has more than proven that he is capable of garnering Roeâs full attention. Roes not a religious man and has spent little time contemplating things such as destiny or fate. He finds them too dangerous of a topic, to have a direction to point blame at for the accumulation of tragedy heâs seen and dealt with. Better to live with blinders on, deal with whatâs directly in front of him without trifling through hidden meanings of tragedies. Perhaps, if he were a different man, heâd spend more time musing on the subject. Consider the odd coincidence of crossing paths with Ismael during this phase of his life. The irony of having been introduced to Ismael first following the death of his brother, only to have the man reappear decades later proceeding the loss of his sister. But Roe does not consider such things, only acknowledges the swell of gratitude to have Ismael in his life.
When Ismael moves out of the bed, Roeâs eyes followâa quickly developing habit of tracing the manâs movements. Unlike the night at the bar, Roe doesnât bother to drop his gaze, knowing Ismael doesnât mind him looking, and in fact beckons the attention towards himself. He doesnât have words for the role Ismael has taken in his life over the past couple months, just knows that the nights when they meet up he seems to breathe a little easier. Itâd be better to chalk up the pullâthe desire to be back near the other manâto pure physical attraction. Itâs a strong enough force on its own, Ismaelâs undeniably attractive and Roe had forgotten the pleasure that came with having a consistent bedmate, in taking the time to explore his partner and their mutual desires. Â But beyond that, Ismael had earned himself a revered position in Roeâs admittedly narrow social life. He was captivating enough to provide a blessed distraction on days when Roeâs mind became a dangerous place for himself, attentive and insightful enough to pull out thoughts that needed to be brought to the surface after being smothered down too long, and, most importantly, had the discernment to know which course of action the scenario called for.
Above all, Roe canât seem to deny himself the opportunity to bask in the self-assurance presence the man bears. Uncertainty has followed Roe like a shadow since childhood, and though heâs searched for its mark in Ismael, the man has not faltered. Still holds himself in a way that makes it seem that heâs truly at ease with who he is and completely confident in the decisions he makes. With Roeâs decisions starting to alarm him now more than ever, letting Ismael guide his choices, even for a mere few hours, feels like a much-needed mental break.
Roe tilts his head to meet Ismael for the kiss, his hand reaching up to press his fingers against the curve of his neck, tracing up behind Ismaelâs ear, and letting his fingernails lightly scrape over the manâs scalp as he cards through the short hair. âYou know, last time you cooked breakfast I had this horrible realization that for years I thought I was semi-decent at making eggs, but itâs all a lie. Mine taste absolutely terrible compared to yours.â He gripes in faux frustration, dropping his hand back down. âSo Iâll handle coffee and you can make the eggs.â
Gentle, traversing touches form gooseflesh along the neck, rushing down the chest, over a slow thumping heart. Ismael hums, pleasantly surprised by the seeking caress. A hand melds to the curve of Roeâs back, presses them closer for a second; curls around the cotton in search for skin.
Mouths part and glassy eyes blink slow. In the honey brown is a man unknown to most; some rendition of Ismael that only breaches the surface when Roe is there to see. All the ugliness and briery parts pushed into the black corners. A scaled down version, hiding his bottomless capacity for ruin.
A gravelly laugh falls out between their mingling breaths. When he speaks, it is syrupy and low, trailing the nightâs sleep. âCanât be good at everythinâ,â he says and runs a greedy hand through Roeâs curls. Hungry eyes fall to the reddened mouth, thumbs at the plumpness. âAnd youâre so good at so many things.â Heavy with implications. Ismael whines as heat pools low.
One more press of the mouth to the stubbled jaw, then he backs away from the warming of their bodies. A hand drifts over Roeâs arm as Ismael walks past, into the kitchen. âGood, cause I need coffee, stat, doc.â A low chuckle. He moves absently, tired; staring long into the fridge before he remembers what to get.
âSo,â Ismael begins, tentative though his instincts are to be forceful, âyou wanna talk about it?â A glance to the side, concern and affection to mask his morbid curiosity; brows knotted. âYou were turninâ and mumblinâ in your sleep again. Another nightmare?â Not a new occurrence but one to keep him guessing; eager to pry open the manâs thoughts and collect the pieces for himself.
