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The first thing Zeno did whenever he got home was take off his glasses.
In his gloved hands, he’d take the rectangular frames–fingers practically molded to their thickness–and carefully press down on the clips of the flip-up sunglasses. The movement was unbearably gentle, kinder than he’d ever been handled or handled anything in turn. It was necessary; the high bridge covers were disgustingly cheap for the cost of his prescription and could break without warning. He removed one frame, then the other, as best as his blurred vision allowed.
The house was always dimly–warmly–lit, the only place in the world tailored to his needs. Meant for eyes too weak, too sensitive, for the sterile lights of hospitals, labs, and big business meetings. He brought his glasses back to his face, blinking as he adjusted to the crispness, and removed his gloves.
“I’m home.” He’d only announce his presence when the moment of weakness passed, after the flip-ups were safely in their case and sat beside his gloves, ready for tomorrow. You’d round the corner from the kitchen right as he’d be hanging up his coat. You’d take his tie in a single, controlled movement, bringing him a step further inside as it slipped out of his waistcoat.
“Welcome home.” Your voice was always soft, delicate on his ears, as you loosened his leash, untying it with a practiced precision and dragging it down his collar. You wrapped it around your hand while he ducked his head for a peck. Your empty palm came up to his face, handling him as he handled the covers of his glasses, and you ran your thumb along the apple of his cheek. The kiss was soft, chaste, and separated with a quiet click.
“Dinner’s in the oven,” You hummed. The tip of your nail grazed the fat under his eye–you noted how the sclera by his waterline was starting to redden. Your chest filled with breath and the passing thought of genetic complexities before moving your hand to the back of his head, cradling the base of his skull between your thumb and index finger. “Twenty minutes.”
He lowered his gaze, nodding through a swallow. “I’ll get cleaned up.”
“Should I get a shower started?”
“No,” He shook his head. His hands which had been hovering over your hips, hesitant to touch, returned to his sides. You lowered your hand, stepping out of his way as he spoke, “I won’t take long.”
His voice was low, soft, and you matched it with a gentle “Alright, dear.”
It only put a quickness in his step.
He stepped into the bedroom, not bothering to turn on more than the bedside lamp as he began to undress. The collar chain pooled in its ceramic bowl with a clean ring, followed closely by his cuff links and lapel chain. He removed each part of his three-piece suit, leaving them draped over the bed for you to retrieve in a moment. They needed to be stripped of his smell, just to be contaminated again after a few days respite.
In the ensuite, he finished undressing while the water warmed up. The light in the bathroom was just as warm as the rest of the house, only slightly brighter by comparison, just to make sure the shower was still well-lit when the curtain shut. The cream towels hanging on the wall were perfectly folded, still sweet-smelling and warm from the dryer. They were the last thing he admired before taking off his glasses, folding them up and leaving them on the ivory counter. He ran his fingers through his hair, loosening the gel that held the style together, and stepped into the hot stream of water.
His whole routine took no more than ten minutes. Each bottle of shampoo, conditioner, face wash, and body wash stood in perfect single file, on the same shelf they’d stood on since he settled into the apartment, separate from your bottles. No movement was wasted.
The towels had cooled by the time the water shut off, but the room was warm, tacky with steam. He pressed his face into the fabric, ran it over his hair, and scraped the water off his body before wrapping the cotton-polyester blend around his waist. He wiped the condensation off the mirror with his wrist and squinted to see his reflection.
The bruising on his neck was getting worse.
A pale hand reached for the discoloration. The darkest part felt nothing while the edges were tender, just like a regular injury. When he first noticed it, he’d dismissed it as a hickey. But you had never left hickeys. You never left a trace of yourself on him; you only seemed to exist in the bed and bath rooms, where your clothes took up space in his closet and your bottles stood proud in his shower. Still, he’d hoped that the bruise was not another failure of his body, another mistake in the copy of his genetic code. He’d hoped you left a mark, and that hope was dashed when you’d touched it one morning before knotting his tie. He’d wanted to see pride in your eyes, the simple look of contentment at a job well done–a brand that was as persistent, stubborn, and unwavering as your feelings for him. But you only hummed, fixed his collar, and brought his head down for a kiss. You’d patted his chest, made your final adjustments, then whispered a sweet “Have a good day,” before kissing him once more. He went on his way with a heavy heart that had no business in his chest.
The door of the bedroom opened. He heard your soft steps wander into the room and stop, just enough paces in to land you in front of the bed. The tiny jingle of ice hitting glass barely reached his ear. He wiped his glasses on a hand towel and pushed them up the bridge of his nose then opened the ensuite door. Sure enough, you were straightening yourself out; a tray sat on the ottoman at the foot of the bed. The look you gave him could almost convince him of mutuality.
“Zeno,” Your sweet voice was as heavy as the steam in the air, enveloping him in a warmth like no other as you came to stand in front of him, reaching up to rest your hands on his shoulders. “I was almost starting to worry.”
He checked the clock on the bedside table–almost five minutes past his expectation.
“I apologize.” He mumbled. He didn’t touch you. You didn’t press yourself any closer. Your hands returned to your sides, and you both resumed your routine despite the interruption. He sat on the edge of the bed, following your every move as you took the vial of PG67A/W in one hand and a syringe in another. The bed dipped as your weight settled beside him. You hummed a meaningless tune as you prepared the serum. He angled his arm, watched you smile with satisfaction at the movement, and didn’t flinch when you injected him. He had long since gotten used to the feeling, only making a slight face whenever you tried a new site.
“All done.” You cooed, turning to place the needle back on the tray. Your hair swayed beautifully as you looked back at him. Your eyes darted around his face, fast but not fast enough to go unseen by him. Eyes, body, lips, eyes. Redness in the sclera, bruising on the neck, the thin lips you kissed several times a day, then back to eyes that were hopefully only getting worse to get better.
He wished he didn’t know what you were looking at.
You scooted a bit closer, tilting your head up in a silent request. He dipped his head to receive a peck so soft and chaste it might as well have been a brush against his hand. You touched him more now, standing up with help from your hands on his chest. Your lips stayed over his, moving once more like you didn’t want to part. He set his hands on your hips even as you tried to move away, parting his lips with a quiet inhale and reciprocating. A content hum filled his head, punctuated by the soft clicks of mouths meeting and separating and meeting again. This went on for only a moment, before you bent your fingers and your nails pressed against his chest in warning.
He released his hold on you but failed to raise his hands. He stopped kissing but didn’t pull away. He waited for you to drop your hands from his body; waited for you to lift your head; waited for you to speak first, lest he fail again.
“Dinner’s ready when you are.”
Every evening passed the same way:
You’d leave him with a glass of whiskey he was supposed to like, from a bottle of alcohol that cost about as much as his prescription. He’d take as many sips as he could stomach before draining the rest into the bathroom sink with cold water, one finger holding up the perfect cube of ice, leaving a slight divot in the otherwise smooth surface. The glass would return to a coaster on his bedside table and it would disappear sometime between dinner and bedtime.
He’d moisturize his face first, rubbing the lighter lotion into his cheeks and neck–scrunching his features together when he put the same amount of pressure on the bruised skin as the clear. Under eye serum was applied especially thick, because he stopped aging at thirty-eight and Zeno was starting to come up on it. Body lotion that smelled of sandalwood and leather was spread less liberally, the sticky feeling never truly fading from his skin. The scent clung to him and his clothes, empowered by the spritz of cologne over his housewear. The profile was supposed to smell expensive–similar enough to whatever he used to wear without being insulting.
But to him it smelled like vinegar, like a jar of pickles opened and splashed directly in his face. He’d been wearing it for years, since he was old enough to know that one spray over his clothes was more than enough for a day. He’d worked up the confidence to refuse to wear it once–only once–on the day The Connections introduced him to you. But you had said you liked it, tucked your hand into his while he shook it the way they’d taught him to, and the words died in his throat.
You’d repeat it every night. He’d walk into the dining room right as you finished putting dinner on the table. There would be homemade pasta or breads all made from the freshest ingredients and he’d have no clue as to how you found them in a shithole like Wrenwood. You’d take his hands in a way that was so unlike the way he first held yours, smile, and say:
“You smell amazing, dear” as you pressed your face onto the unmarred side of his neck. This was the closest you ever held him outside of bed. He’d feel your warmth bloom against his torso, the strength of your arms across his back, and wonder how such a simple thing had you rolling in him like a cat in catnip. A chinchilla in sand.
A dog in an animal carcass.
“Maybe I’ll steal some from you tomorrow.” You’d laugh quietly in his ear. He’d feel the tip of your nose against his pulse point, where the cologne was strongest, beating out his natural scent no matter how hard it fought. Sometimes you’d kiss it, forgetting it was still damp with alcohol, and pull away with a sour face and a laugh, pulling him down to smush his lips onto yours, as if to spread the taste–punishing him with it too. Sometimes it made him smile, and he’d relax enough to plant his hands on your waist. He would steel himself enough to deal with the taste, bringing you back into another kiss, then another, and another. Tonight, you didn’t; you simply settled against his chest, drinking up the smell and his warmth.
Regardless, he’d respond with “You’re always free to” despite himself. He hoped you’d never touch the stuff, and so far, in spite of your many threats, you hadn’t. He could handle it on his body, the body he wasn’t completely sure he occupied most of the time, but he wasn’t sure he could handle it on yours. He was certain he was more fragile than even he knew, and he wasn’t willing to risk you wearing sandalwood and leather or drinking overpriced whiskey or referring to him by a name that was not his being the thing that would break him.
Finally, you’d kiss his cheek and it would be a toss-up as to what you’d say. Most commonly was an exaggerated “Mmph, I love you.” Always punctuated by another kiss. Other times it was something akin to: “Then I guess I will.” That was always his least favorite answer.
Today, you let him hear the best answer of all: “You’re perfect, dear.”
“You’re perfect” was always paired with a squeeze of his hands. Always. Then you’d tug him towards the table where everything had reached the perfect temperature to eat, dragging him by those hands with an eagerness that drained all the tension from his bones. “You’re perfect” nights were somehow always accompanied by his favorite foods–comforting stews or pastas and the wine he’d picked out himself for your anniversary. If he were any smarter, he’d realize it was never a coincidence that “You’re perfect” nights overlapped with the worst days of his life; that “You’re perfect” nights came from someone higher up sending a warning home by the midday; that “You’re perfect” nights were as manufactured an “I love you” as the one on a cheap candy heart.
As opposite an “I love you” to the one he’d whisper against your lips before you both sat down.
You’d give the house one last clean after dinner, getting the plates, whatever cookware you’d neglected during your actual preparation, and finally the leftover ice from his glass of whiskey in the sink while he tidied up the table. At most, he’d have to switch out the table cloth but normally it was nothing more than dusting it for crumbs. You’d load the dishwasher and kiss him, swiping your thumb along his bottom lip as if to wipe it clean of make-believe mess, before dismissing yourself for your evening shower. He’d have anywhere from ten minutes to half an hour for his last cigarette of the day.
He’d sit out on the balcony until a tap on the door’s glass told him you were done and decent. He’d always take a deep breath, filling his lungs with the comforting smell of tobacco–just in case you had followed through on the threat of using his cologne. You never did, and he’d sigh with relief, burying himself in your scent the second you were both in bed.
Your side of the bed always smelled sweet, warm yet distant from your weaker perfume. He kept his head on your pillow, his body under your side of the sheets, while you finished up your nightly routine. He’d stare at you over the plush material, inhaling your scent while you tended to your skin and hair, making sure they’d be protected through the night. You’d have to shoo him when you finally got to your side of the bed.
“Scoot.” You mumbled, pulling the heavy covers away from your edge. The only light provided came from the bedside lamps. After you settled, you leaned closer to the bulb, setting your alarm on an analog clock in its light. He’d never heard it–always managed to sleep through it. He wasn’t entirely sure if you set it at all.
“I said ‘scoot,’ dear.” You repeated when Zeno was still much too close for you to slip under the duvet. He moved with a quiet groan, giving you barely enough room to keep from rolling off the edge and only a second before he was wrapped around you. “This is a king-sized bed, you know?”
He did, but he did nothing about it.
“You smell amazing,” He parroted, smushing his face into your hair. He didn’t know what else to say, no other way to tell you he needed you there, needed you as close as you could be. It made his heart soar when you chuckled.
“Thank you, dear.” You hummed, pushing on his chest in attempts to get him onto his back. He rolled over; you followed suit, draping yourself over his front, providing the most perfect warmth. You were softer than any blanket, warmer than any other sensation, and he couldn’t help but try and drag you up his torso like a teddy bear.
“Could we sleep like this?” He mumbled into your crown. He didn’t care that your head rested over his bruise, just that you were laying in his embrace.
You made a quiet noise, pretending to contemplate as you raised your head and set your chin over his sternum. “You won’t get sore, dear?”
“I promise I won’t.” He mumbled, raising a hand and bringing it to the side of your head. It stalled for a moment before brushing a few damp strands behind your ear. “I promise, dear.”
His voice slipped out so quietly, barely registering it in his own ears before it faded into the dim bedroom. He hated the sound. No one ever described him as quiet.
You let your eyes flutter shut, pressing your cheek into his palm with a content hum. Your eyes opened, and though he couldn’t really make out the shape of them, the color struck him all the same. “Are you sure? I don’t want you hurting at work.” You whispered.
“I’m certain.” The words came before he could think. “Please, my dear. You’re so warm, you feel so warm.” One arm came to wrap around your back, squeezing you slightly. He sighed, “I need you here.”
A comfortable break filled the air, and after a few moments of staring at one and another, you raised a hand to his face, pushing some strands of his hair back. You gave him a few pets before lifting yourself onto your elbows and knees, leaning forward to capture his lips with yours. It began as all your other kisses did, you seemed incapable of kissing him without a sweet innocence. The fat of your lips united without a sound, guiding each other with all the force of a fleeting touch. You met and separated, over and over, until he gathered the strength to pull you closer. Hips to hips, chest to chest, lips to lips.
He took a sharp breath, tilting his head slightly to force you two to slot together and deepening the motion as you followed suit. You only ever allowed him control over your kisses, once he got too needy, too desperate to coat his tongue in your taste, you pulled away. He groaned as you sat up, setting your weight over his hips.
“Your glasses, dear?” You hummed as you lifted your pajama top over your head. The apartment was warm enough to keep you from shivering, and Zeno quickly covered your sides with his hands.
“Please…” He swallowed thickly.
“Shirt first.” You leaned back just enough for him to comfortably sit up. He propped himself against the down-stuffed pillows, letting you take the hem of his sleep shirt between your fingers and lift it over his chest. You pulled it over his head, set it on the duvet behind you in a bundle with your own, then reached for glasses on the end table.
You aligned them in front of his face and gently pushed them up the bridge of his nose. He shook his head just a bit, adjusting them while you settled back against his chest. Your bare breasts squished against his toned muscles. He couldn’t help but whine.
He whispered your name, waiting for you to show some sign of acknowledgement before speaking, “My love… You’re so warm. You’re perfect.”
You smiled at the compliment, letting your fingers comb through his hair with a coo. “As are you, dear.”
He practically melted under your words, pulling you back into a kiss and already pressing the tip of his tongue against the seam of your lips. You closed your hand into a fistful of his hair, tugging on the strands, punishing him for being overeager. He was forced away, made to expose the unmarred bend of his neck to you and your teeth. He panted softly, making sweet noises as he focused on the tip of your nose brushing against his skin. The alcohol of his cologne had fully dried down by now, letting you kiss and bite his pulse point, all without leaving a lasting mark on his pale neck or your taste buds.
An especially harsh bite made him whimper and buck his hips against yours, already forming a cute tent in the silky pajamas you’d bought for him. You raised yourself on your knees, holding yourself just out of reach.
“Easy,” You whispered, brushing your hair away from your face as you crawled down the mattress. “Don’t want to go too fast, do we, dear?”
“Please, my love.” The blond reached for you but kept his palms open. He knew very well a single squeeze out of line was enough to make you stop. “Don’t go…”
“I’m here.” You hummed, lowering your head to begin kissing his waist. He squirmed, writhing beneath your lips. You scolded him with a hand over his cock, palming him through the layers of fabric until he forced himself to keep it together. “I’m here, Zeno.”
You watched with focused eyes as he raised his hand to his mouth, biting down on the flesh of his finger as he struggled to keep quiet and still. Each delicate moan slipped past the digit, filling the room with every perfect sound as you toyed with him, squeezing him gently until you felt the material separating you two dampen, darkening with the beginnings of pre-cum. You replaced your hand with your mouth, gently wrapping your lips around the soft tent. You didn’t kiss or suck, only allowing him to feel a fraction of the heat you could provide. A delicate sound caught in his throat, cracking as soon as it touched the air.
“Are you okay, baby?” You hummed, ducking your head and mouthing a little further down the shaft, leaving a new wet spot with your tongue. His quiet cry reached your ears, and you lifted your head just in time to miss another buck of his hips.
“Dear, please.” He whined, “Don’t– Don’t tease me like that.”
You pretended to ponder, wrapping your fingers around the waistbands of his bottoms and letting your head loll from side to side. Eventually, you pulled them down, planting kisses on each side of his hip bones before blowing a tiny gust of air over his dick. You couldn’t help the amused smile that graced your features as he gave a startled whine, helpless to the way his body reacted, immediately growing hard and heavy in front of you.
You dipped your head, bringing his weeping tip to rest on your bottom lip. Your pink tongue pressed itself flat against the hot skin before your lips closed around the head of his cock. A careful, manicured hand came steady to the base as you spoiled him with kitten licks and coy kisses. You watched him flinch, struggling to keep his hips against the bed as he tried to muffle his grunts with his fist in his mouth. After ages of teasing, pulling away after every kiss, making sweet, satisfied gasps every time you did–as if you were taking sips from the most refreshing glass on a midsummer day–you took him into your mouth properly. You wrapped your lips around the girth, letting your jaw relax as you slowly bobbed your head, never taking more than the first few inches of him. A low groan echoed from his chest.
He whined your name, free hand crushing a fistful of cotton sheets between his fingers. “Dear, please… Keep going, my love, please…”
You hollowed your cheeks, setting a steady pace to his soft pants. You were never an especially quick lover–needing him in tears before you could even consider getting off. He never disappointed, letting his pretty blue eyes cloud with tears that left reddened streaks over his cheeks without shame. You didn’t let up for a moment, taking ages to allow just half his aching cock down your throat.
You pulled away when he started to tremble in earnest–a few simple touches away from cumming. You sat up, fixed your hair in your vanity’s mirror, and crawled back over his chest.
“How are you feeling, dear?” You whispered against his lips, tilting your head one way or another as he tried to chase your lips, whimpering and whining whenever he missed. Tears pooled on his waterline as quickly as they fell.
“Please, my love, I need you.” He babbled. “Please, dear, please. I- I need to be inside you. Please don’t leave me.”
You ran your thumb over his cheek, wiping away the droplets that’d already spilled. You were already kicking off your pajama bottoms. “I’m here.” You whispered against his lips, still refusing him the reassurance of a kiss. “I’m here.”
“I- I need–” He nearly yelped as you straddled him once more, your pussy soft and wet and unbearably close. His cock throbbed pathetically, reaching for you as every part of him did. Your name was a prayer on his tongue, “Let me cum inside you, dear, please. Please, my love, I love you– I love you so much, dear–”
You lowered yourself the slightest bit, using your hand to help him catch against your lips. He shuttered, crying at the feeling of your juices mixing with your saliva on his tip. He bucked his hips, and you pitied him by staying in place, letting him rut into you at his pace. He only managed a single thrust before reaching for your waist, wanting you on his lap. You obliged, listening to his moans as you spread your legs for him. He seemed caught between wanting to watch his dick disappear into your perfect cunt and wanting you close enough to hold and kiss properly.
His body made the decision for him, locking up as he came with a hiss. Babbles of please and other nonsense spilled from his lips like milk from a carton, and he palmed your sides as he rocked you over him. His gaze never left your connection, watching as he spilled inside you; watching as his seed frothed between you with every ministration; watching as you watched too–making a mental note to stop by the pharmacy while he was at work tomorrow.