Maybe I'll wake up

Or maybe I'll drown
In the wonderful river

Tim was feeling slightly nauseous. He parked his car on the side of the road, next to a beech grove bordering a field a couple of miles from Tom's house. Pale rays of March sun peeking through the still bare leafage, it was somewhat reminiscent of the one in their iconic music video. He needed to stop for a bit and think.

The way Tom had looked at him today, the way there was a palpable electrical current between them, even sitting apart. The way he had teased Tim with his all-knowing eyes, his smiles.

Today, Tim had longed for him. This was one of such days. It was sweet despair that consumed his whole being. And Tom had known it and seen it. And he, Tim, had brought all this upon them. By unearthing this song from where it lay. By coming to Tom's home, of all places, on this spring morning, and having Tom sing it while playing his piano, discussing it, and letting it all be filmed and known to the world.

And, in some sinister way, getting all too excited from it all. Tom had noticed, and as if it couldn't have gotten worse, it probably got caught on film, too. Well, that was no more than Tim deserved for stirring up all this. Why did he yearn for this kind of pitiful thrill?

A car swept by, heading towards the town. Must be Natalie taking the kids to a pre-Easter fair-Tim recalled talks about it from earlier when he was still at their place. Then, the countryside scenery was calm and empty again.

Tim should also be going. Enough of this rumination. He could continue later at a more appropriate time and place-and most certainly would. Straightening his shoulders, Tim exhaled and flexed his neck a bit before reaching into his windbreaker's pocket for his phone, but couldn't find it there. It was not in his jeans pockets or lying around anywhere either.

Good thing he hadn't gotten far. Perhaps even others were still at Tom's place-when Tim had left, the content management guys were still hanging around, set to head in the opposite direction soon. But maybe it was just Tom by now. This thought made the unwanted thrill creep back up inside Tim again.

- - -

Tom comes out to greet him for the second time today, slightly surprised, as Tim gets out of the car, having parked it on the driveway. His hand on the small of Tim's back-half-nudging, half-resting-they walk across the garden, back inside Tom's glazed studio-that's where the forgotten phone must be.

Somewhere just around here, on the sofa, or in the piano niche? Tim spots the phone right away; it is indeed on the smooth wooden cover. He reaches for it and, straightening himself back up, senses Tom close behind him.

Simultaneously fighting and succumbing to a sudden blissful dizziness, Tim turns around to face his friend. Shoving the piano chair out of the way, Tom takes a step closer, gently pressing Tim to the wall.

Tim lets the phone out of his grip, back onto the instrument's lid. Tom is nuzzling into his neck while his fingers caress the back of Tim's head. He feels Tom's hips closing in on his, and shifts himself forward to meet him, their erections softly rubbing together.

Overcome by unbelievable pleasure, Tim throws his head back, tilting it against the wall, as they continue relentlessly for what feels like blissful forever. Lost in this shared heaven, he dazedly observes the ceiling, while soberness slowly starts to rise within. This is Tom's family house. He, Tim, has caused all this, initiating and rolling it like a snowball. Whatever this is, it can, should, still be stopped.

Tom is moaning, which makes Tim's already impossible quest unthinkable, but finally he finds in himself the willpower to gently push Tom's shoulders, the divinely intoxicating warmth of his body, away.

'...Is this a good idea?' he manages, slightly short of breath.

Tom looks at him. 'We haven't got much time.'

There's a hint of impatience in his eyes and something indecipherable, almost cruelty. Tim has come to know the different looks and moods of those multi-coloured eyes well throughout their lifetime. Up close, he can see Tom's freckles on his upper cheeks that the sun brought out every spring they had seen together, recent lines under his eyes.

In a spur of desperate decisiveness, Tim kneels, grabs Tom by the hips and turns him around, back-to-wall.

He will worship Tom. On his knees.

He has come here, disturbing Tom's peace, unearthing old memories, exposing his unwelcome feelings once more, ghosts of the past. Now he should go deeper, he should make up for it, he should put this to some kind of an end, and maybe they'll both drown, but so be it.

On this beautiful spring day. He will go to the end.

He watches Tom's hands open his zipper and free his erection from his boxers for Tim to take in. And so he does. First licking the bottom side of Tom's shaft, then carefully going as deep as possible without choking, pre-cum mixing in with his saliva.

Tom holds Tim's head, caressing and playing with his hair as he starts moving his hips back and forth. Tim uses one hand to hurriedly unzip his own slacks, the other one on the side of Tom's hip, his thumb circling the tender skin.

Tom's moans and exhales is all that can be heard apart from the chirping of the birds. Sunlight reflections lie across their statuesque bodies, stretching across Tom's torso and trembling on the back of Tim's powder-pink pullover, as he jerks himself off all the while.

He senses Tom's thrusts become sharper, his hand is no longer resting on Tim's hair, but rather grabbing it tightly. Tim does not remember at which point they must have removed his glasses, but that's the least of his concerns right now.

'Oh yes,' he hears Tom, under his breath. Some more thrusts, Tim doing his best not to gag. 'Ohh Tim... I'm close.'

At that moment, Tim makes another decision. In a way, he feels like punishing himself-for unearthing this song, for writing it, for feeling it. For today, for all the days before... he can only formulate it vaguely.

'Please,' his low voice is quiet but sure as he speaks up, interrupting their deed, 'come on my face.'

Tom seems to shiver. He looks down at Tim, fingers touching his cheekbone. 'Are you sure?' For Tim, Tom's face is blurry without glasses, but he still feels his gaze.

'Do it.'

Tom looks up, closes his eyes, opens again as if to brace himself, or out of pleasure, or both. Still holding Tim's cheek, he starts to masturbate, sometimes closing his eyes, sometimes looking at Tim, taking in his face.

Tom's hips buck as his neck arches, and Tim feels warmth on his closed eyes, Tom's taste on and inside his lips, as they both come almost at once, sharply exhaling in sync.

Tim's worshipping act is done, and he feels strange contentedness, standing there on his knees, shuddering, eyes still closed. A feeling of being lost and found. Drowned and yet, waking.

He hears Tom zip himself up, his breathing still shaky. 'Ohh Tim, let me just... quickly-' he rushes across the room to get a box of paper tissues and, as Tim slowly blinks his eyes open, Tom is pressing a tissue to his face. They clean up the mess on the floor, too.

They are kneeling, face to face, and Tom nuzzles his head in Tim's shoulder again, fingers brushing against Tim's shortly cut, silky hair. Tim's both large hands are on Tom's back, caressing. They stay like that, breathing at the same pace. Birds outside are chirping quietly.

'I should be going,' Tim says, 'before...'

'Mmm,' Tom answers, 'Yeah.'

It's time to wake up.