So
honestly, how could you say those things
when you know they don't
mean anything
And you know very well
that I can't keep my
hands to myself,
hands to myself
I
wanna hate you so bad
But I can't stop this
anymore than you
can
Bike Scene – Taking Back Sunday
Don swallowed thickly as he raised his hand to Mac's door; he knew if he didn't knock soon the neighbor's would get suspicious. Hell, they probably were, he'd been out there fifteen minutes. Still, there was something in Mac's demeanor today, something that had made Don think twice about showing up. But in a city of mazes sometimes there was only one unobstructed path, and for him, that path led to the apartment where he habitually made poor decisions, maybe not poor, maybe just dangerous.
He thought of turning to leave when he heard the woman next door rummaging around for her keys, he could feel the glare she was giving him as she locked the dead bolt of her apartment, hugging her purse to her hip. She hadn't seen his badge and he hadn't wanted her too. Before she could change her mind and go inside to alert the cops to a suspicious person hanging out Detective Taylor's apartment he knocked on the door.
Wearing a t shirt from last summer's Jazz in the Park concert and a pair of sweats Mac was still a sight for sore eyes. He smiled a lot easier in the comforts of his own home and looked five years younger when not in the suit. Not that Don was complaining because the suits had the ability to make him go a little weak in the knees, or maybe it wasn't the suits at all. He was certain his face would split open if he smiled as wide as he would have liked, so he offered him a small smile and nodded towards the Corona in his hand, "Got one of those for me too?" He didn't bother with small talk, didn't pussyfoot around at the door wondering if Mac was going to let him in. Although he feared one day Mac would get fed up and just not answer the door. Don had walked past Mac, kicking off his shoes in the proper place and hanging his jacket before hearing Mac's response, "Actually, no."
Don froze, he didn't know if Mac meant he didn't have any beer, or he didn't have any beer for him. He silently cursed himself, maybe should have waited for Mac to invite him in, damn him for being so presumptuous. Before he could apologize for forcing himself into Mac's apartment he realized Mac was no longer in the room.
He was stunned; his biggest fear was that one day Mac would just grow tired of this. Don had figured if anyone would put up with his reservations, his fears, his complete and total terror of accepting who and what he was, that it would be Mac. He was still standing in the same spot when Mac returned to the room, he couldn't figure out why he didn't have his coat on, why he wasn't out the door. He blinked, his mouth falling open to utter some stupid excuse as to why he was still invading Mac's space when a Guinness was thrust into his hand. "You always make fun of my beer so I bought you your own, so don't think about touching my Coronas." He nodded towards the television and walked towards the couch, "The Knicks are half way through the first half, c'mon." Don quickly closed his mouth and nodded dumbly.
The game had ended without a word between them and even less space; their hands were resting on Mac's thigh. Within ten minutes Don was leaning back against the arm rest, Mac's tongue in this mouth, the Corona on his tongue mixing with the Guinness on his own was an exotic taste which he was quite certain he'd never forget. Don's leg was wrapping around Mac's body, his head falling backwards, eyes squeezing shut, the sensation of their hips together felt almost as good as Mac had tasted.
He was damn near seeing stars when he felt Mac's mouth on his throat as his hips had slowed, prolonging the moment of ejaculation. His breath was warm on Don's ear, his tongue flicking against the lobe, which was a new feeling and one that he definitely wanted to see more of. That is until he heard Mac speak, just whispers in his ear, "Look at me, Don."
All of a sudden his hips stopped moving, his leg loosed around Mac's body, his eyes squeezed together even tighter as his head swung from side to side. After a few seconds of nothing but an analog clock ticking, counting off the moments in an accusatory tone, Don found his voice, "Jus' keep movin', Mac." His head still rested against the couch making absolutely no attempt to open his eyes.
Mac hesitated before sliding his hand down Don's chest, along the silk tie, stopping at his belt. He bit the inside of his check, weighting the possible outcomes of the situation scientifically, after all it was just chemistry, biology and a little bit of anatomy. He started to ease his hand under Don's belt and, although it wasn't the desired result, it got Don's eyes open. Unfortunately they weren't in Mac's direction, they were staring at the clock and he eased himself away slowly, "Gotta go Mac, court in the mornin', thanks for the beer…" He looked away, his face burning red, "…and stuff."
He shoved his feet into his shoes and grabbed his jacket, not bothering to slip it on. He kept thinking that maybe the neighbor was right; maybe she should have called the police. His actions were nothing less than suspicious; he knew this was going to happen sooner or later. In fact he was shocked it hadn't happened yet. They weren't teenagers anymore and they weren't messing around in the back of his dad's Chevrolet.
Stumbling into the night air he waited until he was around the block before pressing into back into a wall, rubbing his face to keep his emotions in check. It wasn't that he didn't allow himself to get emotional; he just wasn't sure what emotion he should be feeling.
He wasn't sad, wasn't angry, wasn't hurt, defensive or disgusted.
He was scared.
And somehow, that was much worse.
