silent motion.

     They sat on the couch. It was warm, midnight in July. The windows were cracked, allowing gusts of outside air to filter into the apartment. The curtains rustled in the slight summer breeze.
     They sat sharing an amber glow between them, two lit cigarettes between their fingers, between their lips. Darrien's eyes watched Jesse's fingers—he watched the tendons twitch as he flicked his cigarette above the ashtray, how they curled around the neck of a half-empty bottle of whiskey.
     His own fingers plucked at a fray on his jeans as Jesse spoke.
     "It's just–fucking hard, you know? Bailey, I–"
     Darrien watched him shake his head. His lip was tucked between his teeth. "–how do I explain it to her? She's just a kid."
     Jesse looked at him as if he expected an answer, an idea, a suggestion. Darrien shrugged in response, the whirring fan blowing cool air against his arm. It made him shudder.
     "I don't know what to tell you, Jess." His fingers tapped his cigarette, embers fluttering. "You're doing the best you can. It's tough shit."
     He wouldn't know. His longest "relationship" had lasted little over a year. Jesse's marriage, now four years strong, was falling apart.
     The other man's hair fell into his face, catching flecks of outside light. The glow highlighted his features. The slope of his lips, the line of his jaw—all the spots Darrien wanted his lips to meet.
     "Miranda sure as fuck doesn't make it easy."
It was subtle, but he could see the tweak of Jesse's jaw. A simple word—her name—carried such power. It felt like a weight on his tongue.
     He watched Jesse lean forward, a hand combing through his hair. His chest heaved with a sigh, and he brought the bottle to his lips.
     "Can we... talk about something else?"
     Darrien nodded. Lately, Jesse had been coming over more frequently. Things got to be too much at home. Jesse and Miranda were either arguing or ignoring each other, and Jess didn't know which was worse.
     "Gotcha."
     "I just feel so fucking lonely, y'know?" The couch creaked as Jesse settled back against it, his hand dropping to his lap. "I love her, and now it's like we're strangers."
     Jesse swallowed. Darrien bumped a knee against him.
     "I mean, you got me."
     This time, Jesse nodded. His gaze was fixed elsewhere, somewhere across the room.
     "Yeah. I do."
     With a grin, Darrien knocked knees with Jesse once more. It was such a small, fleeting contact, but Darrien craved it.
     "But enough of that shit. You already said you..."
     His words trailed off. He stared, mouth still agape, frozen in mid-thought.
A touch.
Jesse's fingers on his thigh.
     It was as if he had short circuited. His gaze was stuck on Jesse's hand. Darrien's lips were still parted, a word still sitting on his tongue.
When Darrien finally looked at Jesse, Jesse was looking back. There was something in his eyes. There was loneliness, yes—but also something more, something that set a tingling in Darrien's fingertips.
     They didn't speak. It was silent motion. Jesse leaned into Darrien; Darrien leaned into the couch. Lips were pressed to lips; hips were pressed to hips. Jesse's fingers hooked into Darrien's hair. Darrien's hands slipped up the hem of Jesse's shirt.
     Darrien felt woozy, as if he were more drunk off Jesse than the whiskey. He had imagined kissing him before, and he had imagined a little more. Now that it was happening, though, it felt surreal. It felt like he could open his eyes and Jesse would still be on the other side of the couch, a cigarette in his hand. It felt like this was just another daydream, another fantasy. Jesse's lips against his reminded him once more that this was not the work of his imagination.
     There were murmured words lost to darkness and drunken snickering. Clumsy hands clutched bunches of shirt, tugging and gripping. Lips were pressed hungrily to skin, Jesse's to Darrien's jaw; Darrien's to Jesse's collar. Legs were entangled with legs; fingers were entangled in hair. When they pulled away, breathless, Darrien expected it to happen all over again. He waited for Jesse to kiss him, he waited for the pull of his hands. He waited, but nothing came.
     As quickly as it had started, it was over. Jesse was back on the other cushion, his head in his hands. Darrien was sitting up, his fingers ghosting over his lips. He could still feel Jesse's lips there—the warmth of them, how they had been softer than he had imagined, how he wanted to feel them again.
     "I'm sorry." Jesse's words were quiet, a whisper. "Fuck–I'm sorry. I shouldn't have–I shouldn't have done that."
     "No." Darrien snatched the bottle from the table and raised it to his lips. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend he was tasting Jesse, cigarettes on his breath and whiskey on his tongue. "It's fine."
"Darrien, I–" The word became a breath as Jesse exhaled it. He flopped back against the sofa, his hands laying in his lap. "I like you. Fuck, I do. But she's still–I'm still married, Dare."
     Darrien's eyes traced the movement of his fingers, circling the rim of the bottle, round and round. He pressed them once more to his mouth, still crackling with the intensity that had met it moments before.
"Yeah," he nodded. Whiskey burned in his throat. "I get it."