Daddy [mxm]

7

Chelsea has been gone for less than a day and her absence is already markedly apparent in the house.

I find myself picking up dirty socks and underwear the way she typically has to. The firehouse conditioned me to do shit like that.

Roger will be home from school soon. It's his last week before summer vacation. I grab Chelsea's apron and start fretting about what to make for a late lunch, gaining a newfound appreciation for all the things she has to worry about. I love Rudy, but he fucked up.

I'm always the one to watch Avery whenever Rudy and Chelsea need a babysitter, so he's in good hands. I've just put him to sleep in the living room bassinet when someone startles me.

"Oh." A hand settles lightly on my waist, instantly kicking my pulse into overdrive. "I walked in 'n' seen you with yer hair 'n' that apron there 'n' fer a second ah thought it's Chelsea." Rudy chuckles, his hand moving up to knock my shoulder.

Be still, my beating heart. His tanned, crinkled face frames his toothpaste-ad-teeth beautifully. Even the glints of of silver in his beard and hair make him look more delectable.

The ghost of his touch lingers on my hypersensitive waist.

"Oh um." I duck my chin, suddenly shy. "I've got your birthday gift. I know it's a bit early, but..."

I scramble to produce the bag from behind the couch where I stashed it.

Holding it awkwardly out to him, I feel my cheeks flush hot. My notions of intimacy through the proxy of these little gifts seem silly here and now. I wish I'd just gotten him something normal and socially acceptable, like a gift card.

"Aww, Evan..." He reaches out to hug me, catching me off guard. The hug is a bit awkward, with me accidentally stepping on his foot, but I lean into it and squeeze him tight. Maybe too tight. There's room for plausible deniability, though; it could just be a sign of my sincerity. If that isn't plausible, then I probably seem like a weird, clingy and overly affectionate kid to him.

Rudy says he'll open all the gifts together, and he wants to go for a run to clear his head. No sooner has he left than I pick up a crumpled pair of his underwear from the laundry basket I brought down, and fall back on the couch with it over my face. And it's all kinds of creepy and inappropriate. I sniff the heady fragrance with a moan, reaching down to rub myself through my jeans. Biting my lip, I glance wearily around to make sure I'm alone. Nothing but the dog barking in the yard. Then I get up and steal his shirt from the basket too. I bury my face in it, inhaling deeply. It's him. Pressed against me. And that mental image combined with the recent memory of our bodies pressed together is enough to get me going. Fumbling hands work at my zipper, my ragged breaths filling the air. I trail my finger through the underwear and put my finger in my mouth in a desperate bid to taste him. And then, scalding hot with shame that isn't enough to stop me, I jerk off on the Palmers' couch to framed, half-naked photos of Rudy on the beach with his family.

When I finish, I glance furtively out the window for the millionth time. My heart is racing with the possibility of being discovered, but the coast has remained clear.

That doesn't mean I'm not a sick piece of shit.

Standing up and crossing over to the sink, I spend about five minutes just washing my hands and face with frigid water.

I don't stop until baby Avery starts crying, and then curse myself for running the water so loud.

I pick him up and rock him on my hip while preparing some formula because he's showing signs of hunger.

When his milk is warmed to the right temperature, I give Avery the bottle and he suckles in earnest.

The jangle of keys at the front door makes me perk up. It's not Chelsea; it's Bret, with Roger in tow.