Not A Blowjob 2

I’ve never been one of those heart-on-my-sleeve, emotionally-driven kind of guys. Never. Not when Ricky and I first met, not during the our first two years together, not even when he bought me a ring for my last birthday.

I took the ring, sure, and I never take it off, but there was no getting teary-eyed, no “what does this mean” bullshit, no drama. I just thanked him, kissed him, and fucked him nearly blind after I let him slip that ring — a surprisingly simple platinum band with our initials engraved on it — onto my finger. I might also have jammed that same finger up inside him a few times before shoving my cock in there, but whatever.

Point is, I’ve never been overly lovey-dovey. It’s just not my thing. Chalk it up to my bizarre childhood, I guess, because watching lover after lover — some female and some male — wander in and out of my dad’s house for years before I’d gone away to college hadn’t exactly given me a huge amount of respect for obvious emotion. Too messy. Too dramatically overwrought.

Even so, I’m kind of freaked out, what with Ricky being sick, because that’s another thing I’m not good with. I never know what to do.

Lucky for me, Ricky’s Dad really does care for his son. It’s the only reason I’m on unofficial leave from the car dealership. All it took was me calling in the first morning and putting Ricky on the phone, sounding all weak and raspy from puking all night, and Mr. Leighton was more than happy to tell me to take as much time as I needed to get the fruit of his looms — and yeah, that phrase amuses the fuck out of me — back to being a pain in the ass.

The first day wasn’t too bad, if I’m being honest. Ricky was miserable, after all. Stuff flying from both ends with little or no notice kept him too busy to be a huge whining dick.

Second day, more of the same. As long as I cleaned up after him and let the damned dog out, he was pretty tractable.

Third day, not so much. He was getting bored and that’s never a good thing. Bored Ricky is like a five year old on crack. Bored and sick Ricky? Christ. Imagine Pee Wee Herman going ballistic while pouting and begging to be amused and it’d still only be halfway close to the reality.

Which brings us to day four. Today.

He’s still shaky, still weak. Holding food down and holding food in, which is even more important, but bored doesn’t even begin to cover it.

“Jake…” Oh, lord. He’s awake. Again. “Jake, I can’t reach the remote! Is there any more of that tea? I’m cold!”

My eyes roll so much, they might possibly fall out of my head and make a break for the border, but damned if I’m not getting up from the couch in the living room, where I’ve been sitting watching… absolutely nothing. The TV is in the bedroom for a change, because fuck if Ricky’s willing to read a book to keep himself amused. And he’s been getting himself to the bathroom for the last two days, so the God damned remote better be in fucking Iceland if he can’t get up to grab it.

Butch, the poofy-and-froofy pest-from-Hell chooses right now to run between my feet and I swear to God, I’m going to skin the little yapper and make myself… well, one slipper. Except Ricky loves the damned dog and most days I sort of do, too, so I guess the furry little beast is safe. Knows it too, God help me, because Butch smirks at me as much as a dog can, then darts into the bedroom.

He’s on the bed with Ricky when I make my way through the door and I really want to say something. Want to tell Ricky to get the annoying little piece of… dog… out of our bed, but Ricky looks so damned happy, I can’t quite force out the words. Hell, Ricky’s giggling just a little, which even after more than two years still fascinates me. It should seem ridiculous, what with Ricky being so big and buff, but somehow the tittering laugh just suits him.

God, I have it bad. Not that I’ll ever say so. But Ricky laughing like that and smiling so brightly just fucking does it for me, and if that means Butch stays on the bed for a little while longer, then so be it.

“Fine,” I say, sounding grumpy, I’m sure. “Where’s the fucking remote you can’t reach?”

Ricky points and I have to literally bite my tongue because it’s right there on the bed. Maybe five feet away from where Ricky’s all huddled under every blanket we own. Right there on top of the king sized bed Ricky just had to have when we first moved in together.

Funnily enough, my honey doesn’t look cold at all. In fact, he’s pink rather than tan, and I can see a bead of sweat freeing itself from his hair to roll down the side of his face. But he’s smiling and that’s good. It’s more than I’ve seen in the last few days. So much so that I want to crawl across the mattress and lick that tiny drop from his skin except Butch beats me to it. Furry slipper, for sure. One of these days.

“You sure you want tea?” I ask him, even as I snatch up the remote and move around to Ricky’s side of the bed. I drop it beside him, then my hand rises, all on its own, to feel his forehead, and yeah. The fever he was running has definitely broken. I can’t help the surge of relief that swarms through me. “Tea might make you too warm. How about some broth instead? Just a little bit warm, not hot.”

God, I feel like a jackass, catering to him. But he’s been sick, after all, and while I’m not the emotional sort, I’m also not so cold that I don’t know what my relief means. “Or maybe some juice?”

Okay, maybe I’m usually more closed off than I think because Ricky’s suddenly looking at me like I’ve sprouted a dick from my forehead. Some sort of “wow, this is weird but kind of cool and maybe interesting” kind of look that has me feeling really uncomfortable. Then the one hand that’s not buried under the heap of blankets leaves Butch’s back and reaches for me. Finds my shoulder and rests there, and Ricky smiles.

It’s not an ordinary smile, God help me. It’s a huge fucking thrilled-as-fuck smile. Like I’ve done something surprising or asked him to fuck me, which doesn’t happen all that often. He’s not really into the topping and fuck if his ass isn’t hot and tight enough that I don’t mind. But sometimes… well, yeah. Change can be good, in limited amounts.

“Do we have any apple?” he says, and it takes me a second or three to remember what the question was. Right. Juice.

“Orange, pineapple or cranberry,” I tell him and he pouts. Fuck, I hate it when he pouts. “Pick one,” I add, because I’m not willing to put myself out any more than the last three and a half days have already made me do. Then Ricky heaves a sigh and I can’t stand the deeper, more intense pout he gives me.

“Fine,” I snap, but I can’t quite bring myself to pull away from his hand on my shoulder. Not when he’s awake and aware and seems to be feeling better. “I’ll go out and get you some apple juice. Just don’t get used to it. As far as I’m concerned, if your temperature is back to normal, you’re well enough to run your own errands, after this. And I expect a blow job when I get back.”

Ricky smiles and he still looks a little worn out. Maybe even a little bit sick, still. But so much better than before, I don’t feel bad at all for pushing him to get better.

“Jake,” he says, and I already know I’m not going to like whatever he’s trying to say, “you know I love doing that but my stomach… well, gag reflex…”

Okay. Not a blowjob. Fuck. “Fine.”

He waits until I’ve made it to the bedroom door before calling my name again.

“Jake,” he says, and he’s whining again, “Butchy really needs a walk. Can’t you take him with you?”

Oh, fuck no. Me, walking Ricky’s froofy little cute-ass dog? In public? Never gonna happen. I like the little beast, but no. Not a fucking chance. And that’s exactly what I tell Ricky.

Five minutes later, I’m walking out of our apartment. I have a list for the grocery store a block over — apple juice, brown sugar toaster pastries, fudge brownie and marshmallow swirl ice cream, tofu and veggies for stir-fry. And Butch is prancing along at the end of his leash, looking for all the world like he’s walking me.

Christ. If the ring wrapped around my finger like a fucking vise hadn’t already made it clear to me, the fact that I’m walking Butch would do it.

I love Ricky… and God help me, but now? He knows it.

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