Professor Litefoot woke up early in the small hours, as he often did, as he slept like an old man: napping, and lightly at that. And old he was indeed, but he was still miffed he had to get up from a warm bed two, three times a night because of the blasted bladder.
"Darn it, can this be more vexing", Litefoot huffed while fitting tussled slippers into his feet. Cold draft swept beside skirting, and it felt vicious against his bare ankles, but the Professor couldn't force get himself to find a pair of socks. Under normal circumstances his clothes would have been nicely folded on a vanity stool, as any proper gentleman should. But today his room reminded of a sorting of rags. There was a tie hanging on the ceiling lamp. The tie's living rack in the other hand slept and slouched on his side the Professor's bed, tightly curled inside the covers like a furry baby. Mr. Jago snored so loud he almost woke himself up from time to time. Then he babbled dozily funny nonsense before falling back to the seventh circle of heavenly sleep.
Litefoot lit the remains of a candle and tiptoed to the bathroom and back again. He let it on, as after the trip he was too cold to go back to sleep. A nasty shiver travelled through his spine. Mr. Jago did nothing but sniffled one breath at the time, being like a particularly fat grey spotted seal on hot rock, heated by the midsummer sun.
"Oh, don't I sometimes envy your gifted sleeping, Henry", said Litefoot. Then he ruffed his pillow and tried to pull his end of the covers under Jago's fat tummy, but to no avail.
"You don't care at all if I freeze to death, now do you!" he snapped. Jago, naturally, didn't register the sayings, but he did react to his tone by puckering up his lips and letting out a typical growl of a bullied human-being. The Professor kicked him in the stomach with his knee.
"Huh? What, is the house on fire?" said Jago after suddenly stirring up, more or less. He batted his eyes in the flapping light of the candle and tried to sit up, only to flop back like a strudel, but about an inch further and closer to the Professor's cold feetsies.
"You always hog all the covers", said Litefoot. Jago looked at him like he hadn't understood a single word of clear English. Kind of like an exceptionally jovial dog, that tried to make the heads and tails of a command that hadn't been taught yet. Even his hair was sideways fluffy like an animal's fur!
"Oh, quite. You're wholly right. Sorry", Jago mumbled. No cold cat has ever found a warm spot faster that the Professor right after Jago let his grip of the covers go. He plummeted right against Jago's skin.
"Ah, you are delightfully warm!" Litefoot said happily, and didn't care at all that his friend was wiggling.
"OW, OW! And you are a wintry little winter imp, professor! Ded Moroz, tossing frizzy frost and icy bricks with your numb fingers. Good grief!"
"Let that be a lesson to you", Litefoot stated simply. After his limbs had the time to melt, his feelings grew up fuzzy like Mr. Jago's sideburns. The candle flickered behind the Professor's back, drawing a softly edged black profile to the wall in front of him. It had Mr. Jago's head and shoulder… and a slice of his ribs. His hip came up accentuated, as Litefoot was holding him tight. He felt warm and good. Mr. Jago's dressy nightgown had rubbed against the sheets and rolled up, so that his naked tummy was free to fondle.
"I say, professor!" Jago yelped from the handsyness of the Professor, "Didn't we lay once when we laid down?"
"Well, that was an utter disaster", Litefoot defended himself, referring to the absolute state of chaos of his bedroom, that can only result from two intoxicated men fumbling in a supposed erotic context, "You were too drunk!" he added. Mr. Jago got immediately and visibly huffy.
"The nerve of you! Too drunk, you say? After few puny pints? Nonny nonsense, if I ever heard one! You yourself were sternly stuffed, you almost stumbled to your own feeble feet in the entry of your own blasted apartment", said Jago, but he didn't manage to sound convincing. Even a fool would know, that Professor Litefoot, due to his poor tolerance, didn't ever really dare to drink so much he'd lose the track of his feet. Mr. Jago was tempting him just to be annoying. Litefoot groped him hard from the back of his thigh.
"Few pints indeed, few pints overboard! You thoroughly indulged in sentimentality. You kissed me abruptly, don't you remember?" He said and came a little bit closer. Close enough to feel Mr. Jago's moist breath on his face.
"Well, aren't one allowed to embrace one's friends!" said Jago. His hands under the covers were timid and tender. Not like the Professor's, who was always assertive. You always could feel it in your flesh, that Litefoot was a physician, as he knew how to confidently capture you. You couldn't say the same for Mr. Jago, but his lovemaking was sensible in the levels of fond affections, and it fit well together with the Professor's bedtime pedagogies.
"You kissed me on the mouth, you sap, on the mouth! Luckily the tavern was so packed one couldn't see in front of them. You ought to be more careful, for your own sake at least."
"Blah", snorted Jago, as the Professor was right in his assessment, He was a little bit too trusting to the ethos of his favourite public house. You didn't need much more than one odd stranger between all the regulars, and Mr. Theatrical Impresario's and his Pathologist friend's necking could have easily turn a degree or two more serious ordeal.
"I am truly serious", said Litefoot. It wouldn't have been beneficial for either of them to get in trouble because of hearsay. Well, Litefoot could perhaps sweep one thing or another under the rug by abusing his stature, but Mr. Jago in his public profession was fragile. The New Regency Theatre he owned and piloted was most of all depended on his personality. Not that Litefoot's stature was particularly too hot, as he had already once been temporarily kicked out of his job because of mean slander. Or, well, because of slander and that he had had a screaming sufferer of bloodlust, an unmarried victim of vampirism, Ms. Higson, tied up to his bed all day and all night. Some things are so difficult to explain to the manager. "Hmph. So it is that you're not even occasionally allowed to hold your chums in cheery camaraderie in public houses! Isn't this just a corking sort of The Injustice Exclusive Club, is it?" Jago huffed. Their mouth came almost to each other when their embrace tightened. And the a moment held on. There was only a stump in a size of the end of your thumb remaining of the candle, but it still shed some light to how confidently the Professor guided Mr. Jago to position himself right. He didn't want to get cold! So he rather let Jago as a live hot water bottle to mount him and put a knee between a knee.
"Take me, Henry", Litefoot sighed, both of his hands tied up tightly around Jago's neck. A droplet of sweat dripped down Jago's forehead… or was it really sweat at all? "You're surely not crying, my good man?"
"No", Jago lied.
"There, there, you poor thing. Did I say something bad? Please forgive me, I was only teasing you. You may kiss me in The Red Tavern, if you do it chaste."
"No, that's not… I wasn't minding that, off with that", Jago grunted and wiped his cheeks to the bedsheet. Shedding some tears wasn't exactly surprising, nor rare occasion, but seldom did Mr. Jago cry without a reason. Litefoot kissed his cheek.
"What's the matter?"
"I… I don't think this old chap is cut to much anymore", said Jago.
"To do what?" Litefoot asked, being somewhat confused.
"Uh… how should I put it… ugh… unfortunately my manhood isn't what it used to be", Jago explained, which made the Professor realize that so it is, that Mr. Jago's prick wasn't in its sharpest condition. Litefoot might have been a tad amused of the confession – not because of Jago's upset, but because he himself wasn't a prime picture of a rock hard sexual potency either. Good God, he was a man, who had to get up several times a night to run to the bathroom!
"My dear… even though I love you immensely , you sometimes are as dilettante as you seem."
"Hrmph!" Jago snorted while sniffing his nose , "And what is that supposed to mean?"
Litefoot kissed Jago on the cheek and neck again. And he kissed his shoulder and slid his hand from the neck down to his chest and below. Desire is not in the flesh, nor in the blood, it resides with the will. Stroking feels good, on the thigh, on the stomach, or even on the cock, even if it wasn't like the sweaty lust on a youngster's thirsty loins.
"Let's pet each other, shall we? Don't cry", said Litefoot and touched him. It felt good. You could say that unhappiness and shame just melted away, out of Mr. Jago. His body wasn't broken, it was only tired and sorting out the tail ends of a down pouring intoxication. You can't make love in a wrong way.
"George… I..."
"Shush. Don't. Everything is truly alright", Litefoot revised him before Jago had time to be more sorry. They kissed and hugged each other till the candle smothered out, and even after. Maybe a hundred kisses? A thousand light touches, and as many beautiful words and there were silences. One single making of sweet love, from the beginning to and end. It even felt different this way, when there was no clear beginning, nor an end. Affection burned as prettily as the candle, even after the flame had died. Cooling off slowly and not making it in a rush.
If the blood rushed through the shaft, it did is so sweetly, not teasing, nor promising too much. Litefoot enjoyed every moment he got out of Jago's lap. Why cry for incapability, when a man's body has three hundred other muscles, every which one that was capable? There was so much to love in Mr. Jago than just a thick, fat, everlasting and everstanding cock. It's a completely irrelevant detail among others! Professor Litefoot would have been more dazzled if he had really lost weight about thirty pounds they had talked about.
The clock was just a touch away six AM in the morning when Litefoot woke up the next time in his friend's tight arms just to note, that he had to go the bathroom again.
"Oh for the Heaven's sake", said the Professor and looked for his slippers again. And he wasn't surprised, that in the three minutes he spent padding in the corridor, Mr. Jago had once again robbed the covers and even half the sheets under him. This time Litefoot decided to be wise in the long term and make himself a cup of morning coffee, as Jago was the one to be a morning dormouse. He let him sleep over his hangover, that's how a truly considerate relationship works when it works well.
FIN