Compare and Contrast


In the end, it's the same with both of them.

With him, it always started quiet. Most of the time it seemed like nothing would happen at all; it took months before I stopped expecting him to roll back over and tell me to go to sleep. With him, everything began with me. I had to be the one to tease out the first kiss, to draw him out of that ice. It took him a long time to stop being startled when I touched him, or when I looked at him with a smile that meant I wanted him. Every time, when we stayed curled around each other in the darkness, I touched first, I kissed first, I whispered what I needed. He'd always breathe in just a little, not quite a gasp... and after a while, he'd start to smile. Sometimes he'd whisper my name, but never anything more.

With Ken, it's an explosion. He's curled up behind me when we're sleeping and I feel him hard rubbing against me, or he tackles me when I get home from school and a tickle war turns into something more. He laughs, he growls in my ear, he murmurs low about how he spent the day thinking about getting me alone, getting me naked, getting me off. In those words, exactly. And then he laughs again.

He stayed quiet, always. It took a long while for me to learn all the small signals; for a while I wondered if he was actually enjoying myself or just putting up with it because he didn't want to say no. He would have said no if he hadn't, though, even though it would have hurt me. If you brushed your fingertips over his lips, his eyelids fluttered shut. If you brushed your fingertips over his eyelids, he whispered in a breath. Every touch on him had to be light, like ghost fingertips; I wouldn't have thought him to be so sensitive, but there he was, gasping and shivering when I brushed a fingernail along his neck. Sometimes, in the beginning, he'd almost look pained or frightened; I would stop and ask him if everything was all right. He didn't answer with words, no more than my name and a look in his eyes that begged.

Ken you can bite, you can claw, you can roll around on top of. He's not made of glass, and he wouldn't react if you tried to treat him like something breakable. Harder, he'll hiss, almost as much as anything else. Don't be gentle, Omi, fuck, you don't need to be, harder. And his skin is warm under my teeth when I bite his neck, and he moans even though the marks will be gone before morning. Nothing ever lasts on his skin, no matter how hard you claw, no matter how long you bite and suck at that spot on his neck that makes him swear. If I pull on his nipples long enough, tugging and teasing, he'll beg me for more. Please, Omi, please.

He gave no words, no guidance. At least, never with his mouth. I had to watch very carefully, to measure every breath. If I kissed the scar on his hip, his breath shuddered. If I kissed lower, close enough for him to feel my breath on his cock, he'd freeze up like a rabbit, every muscle locking. Like everything, it took me a long while to tell the tension from the fear. When I'd actually taste him, long and careful and slow, he'd whimper. It was the sweetest sound in the world, that smallest noise coming from his lips. I'd do it gently, carefully, drawing out more of those little noises, drinking him in until his muscles started to tense and his breath started to shake. And when I stopped and drew away to smile at him, he'd look at me with confusion, with pain, and with all the weakness he never shows.

Ken's fingers go into my hair and he pulls, even though I know he doesn't mean to. He tries to stop himself, to be gentle with me, but it never works all the way. I love it when you suck me, Omi, oh, God, your mouth feels so good, fuck. He babbles when he starts to get close. His hips lift from the bed, pushing his cock deep into my mouth. We move so fast together that sometimes I get sloppy, but he hardly seems to mind the occasional grazes of teeth. I don't have to watch for subtle signals with him to know - oh, God, I'm going to come, oh, so good - he lets me know. And when I pull away from him, he begs like a man dying and I smile.

I asked him if he'd done it before the first time; with a man who flinches when you touch his nipples, you have to ask. He nodded, just barely, and I didn't ask any more. When I slipped a finger inside of him, his brow would clench, almost like he was concentrating on something very difficult; maybe he was. He was always tight and hot around me when I pushed into him, but I never whispered into his ear for him to relax. Somehow, it seemed like telling him what to do at a point like that would ruin everything. By then, when I started to move, when he gasped again and his back lifted from the bed, I could feel him start to trust. His lips would sometimes shape my name when I reached to stroke him, but no breath could be wasted to give it voice.

Sometimes, Ken will try to get ahead of me, to crawl on top of me. I push him to the bed and tell him to be patient. He tells me not to waste time with anything else, he grabs at my hips and pulls me closer, still babbling. Fuck me, please, now, I need you to fuck me, Omi. He screams sometimes when I thrust into him, but I know it's not pain. Sweat beads on his forehead, glistens on his chest, highlighting all the muscles and scars. He pulls on my shoulders and by then he can usually only growl my name, or fuck when I start to tug on his cock.

The world stopped for him. All of his muscles would lock, tight around me, and his eyes would flutter open, violet staring up into the darkness, as though he was afraid to look at my face. He stayed like that for the time of a breath, for one last touch, and then his eyes would close again and his mouth would open in a soundless cry as he came hot between us. He shivered, he arched, his fingers pressed into my shoulders as though they would bruise, but he never made sound more than a whimper before falling limp and gasping for air.

Ken screams. Maybe that's not the word for it, but he yells, he growls, he makes noise when he comes. Fuck, yes, Omi, fuck, yes, Omi, yes, Omi. His eyes stay closed. He looks like he's in pain, teeth clenched and nails digging into my hips, brow knitted and muscles tight. He bucks and writhes with a mind to break the bed, and when he's done, he does his best to keep moving until he can get me to scream, too.

In the end, it's the same for both of them. My eyes shudder closed, I gasp in a long breath, and then everything is wonderfully, beautifully still until I start to breathe again. But when I draw in that breath, and the one after it, every thing breaks away again, different.

Yeah, Ken, I think we'd have to put on pants to order Chinese food.

Silence except for the breathing between the two of us, inhaling and exhaling in tandem as our limbs tangle together.

C'mon, Kenken, give me a few minutes to recover.

The small smile on his lips that almost hurts to see. The asking in his eyes. The answer that frightens me. The fear he hides when I hide mine.

In the end, it's more different than anything in the world.