Romance short. A newly out man falls for a local tailor.
3k, M/M, rated M. Sweet and short, some bantering back and forth, some shyness and sillinness, some cute cats! Featuring Pothos Hearn. Adapted from a TweetFic.
Davis has been in the closet all his life. That’s what they call it, closeted.
His mother would never have accepted it if she’d known, always hoped and prayed every day that he’d finally meet a girl and settle down with her, and if he’d ever have let on what he was… Well, she’d have died earlier than she did, and he couldn’t bear it, the idea. He’d loved her, truly, he had.
She’s been in the ground three weeks when he first goes into a gay bar. He’s forty-six years old and he feels like he’s entering a whole new world, a new society — no one recognises him, but he still feels their gazes on him, feels late to the party.
Another man his age calls him “sweetheart” when he says hello, slips into the seat beside him at the bar, and a few minutes later his hand is on Davis’ knee, and Davis is giggling, giddy, can’t get over it.
He experiments. He plays.
It’s so much easier than he ever dreamed it would be, no matter that he’s so late at this, no matter that it’s all so new.
Months into his new self, his new life, his new everything — his new happiness, the flower that’s bloomed out of grief, a man walks into his local bar. He’s very popular, it turns out, and Davis isn’t surprised by that.
He’s a fat little tailor, handsome and smooth with beautiful hands, and he always has men in his lap. He’s so confident Davis can hardly believe it. He’s confident, he owns himself, he talks a lot and is so opinionated, and so funny.
He’s good at his work, does tailoring for everyone in town and nearby, and Davis has been working up the courage to go in and ask him to tailor something, anything, just as an excuse to make conversation.
He comes into the bar one night and he’s just looking at him, just glancing the tailor’s way, and he says, “You’re always examining me. Has it never occurred to you that you might touch as well?”
Davis is stock still, stunned by the question, at being addressed.
The tailor pats his knees.
Suddenly, Davis is bright red and burning and trying not to sweat as he says, “Oh, no, I… I can’t. I’m much too big to sit in your lap.”
“Do you think you’re the biggest man to ever sit in my lap? I can assure you, you’re not.”
“I’m too old.”
“Am I Santa Claus?”
“Eh?”
“Am I Santa Claus? Father Christmas? Do I look as if I set a maximum age requirement to sit in my lap?”
“I’m too old for you, I meant.”
“You’re not even fifty, are you? I’ve fucked men older than you, let alone had them in my lap.”
“I… don’t know,” Davis mumbles. He’s not been in someone’s lap since he was a boy, he doesn’t think.
The tailor laughs. He has a wonderfully expressive laugh, and bright eyes, and he wears jewellery in his ears. “You don’t know, is that it? You’ve never sat in a man’s lap before? Come here, let me tutor you.”
“I — ”
“You’re not too old for me, in any case, I’m younger than I look,” says the tailor. “I’m thirty-seven.”
“You’re not,” Davis says immediately, but it makes something relieved and a little bit ashamed surge in his chest. The tailor laughs again.
“Kind of you to agree I don’t look it,” he says, “but yes, thirty-seven is right. What are you, forty-six?”
“I… Yes. That’s right. Spot-on.”
“I always get the bullseye in darts, too,” says the tailor, waggling his eyebrows. “I’m ever so cold, though. Come warm me up.”
It’s unthinkable, really. Davis has spent the whole of his life secretively reading romance novels and watching romantic films and it had always felt like something he’d grow out of, wanting to be in the woman’s position in one of those stories. He thought when he came out, as they called it, that he’d shake it off — that he could have the real thing, be with men, that he wouldn’t want to be… What? Wooed? Seduced?
And it is different. Things are different, in many ways better than he might have imagined, so much more casual than he had expected, men with men… But no one has wooed him. No one’s made him feel small and precious and delicate.
It was meant to just be fantasy, just be his imagination. It was meant to be different. And yet there’s something about this, something wonderful about it, that speaks to everything he’s ever craved, every wanted.
The tailor pats his knees again.
He strides suddenly forward, stiff and awkward, hands at his sides, and the tailor’s delicate hands settle solid and warm on his waist, turning him to the side before one palm splays on his belly. He can’t breathe and he feels light-headed at the touch.
The tailor’s thighs, fat and plush but a little awkward to perch on because he’s not a tall man, are comfortable and so warm he could cry. He’s aware of the tailor’s belly pressing against his side, the tailor’s hand coming up to squeeze his shoulder.
“Oh my God,” he whispers, and the hand on his belly presses down in a way that makes him breathlessly laugh. It tickles him and overwhelms him.
“You needn’t call me that,” he says. “My name is Pothos Hearn.”
“I’ve never sat in a man’s lap before,” he says giddily, and he realises he has no idea where to put his hands. “You were right about that, too.”
Pothos, apparently sensing his hesitation, tugs one of his hands up to his neck, encouraging him to touch him there, to put his fingers in Pothos’ hair.
“Your hair is so curly,” he whispers. “And so thick.”
“And that’s just the hair on my head,” says Pothos, and he laughs. “What’s your name, old man?”
“I’m not that much older than you!”
“Mmm, you act older, though,” says Pothos, pouting his pretty lips. “It’s appealing.”
“Davis,” he says quietly: without his permission, the hand not wrapped around Pothos’ neck has settled on top of the hand he’s holding to Davis’ belly. His fingers feel strong.
“Where have you been all my life, Davis?” asks Pothos, and Davis shivers.
“Don’t tease.”
“Oh, but I’m a teaser by nature. I have to.”
“Do you have to, or do you like to?”
“I absolutely have to do things I like doing.”
Davis turns his head to look down at him, and Pothos gives him a smirk, his eyes glittering. His clothes smell faintly of lavender and camphor — Davis has heard him mention it, heard him say he keeps dried flowers in his wardrobe and his drawers, flowers and wood oils. It’s a traditional way of keeping out pests, and he likes the smell.
Davis does too.
“What do you do, Davis?”
“I’m a health and safety inspector, a risk management specialist.”
“Foresee any risks in this situation?”
“I might die.”
“Oh, don’t die,” murmurs Pothos, shifting his hand out from under Davis’ and interlinking their fingers. “I’m enjoying you.”
Davis lets out an involuntary noise, his thumb touching against Pothos’ hand, stroking over the side of it.
“Did you move here recently?” he asks, and Davis shakes his head; Pothos has spread his surprisingly strong thighs out a bit, giving him a wider seat, and Davis almost wishes they were lying down so he could sprawl entirely on top of him. “I’ve never seen you about.”
“I only came out this year.”
“Oh?”
Davis bites his lip, nodding his head, doesn’t meet his eyes, and Pothos leans forward, wrapping his arms around Davis’ middle and resting his cheek on his shoulder. Davis wants to cry, it feels so warm and secure and really quite wonderful, because no one’s ever touched him like this, not since he was a child, and yet part of him aches to hold Pothos’ hand again.
“You’re so handsome,” he says. “And charming. Everybody here loves you.”
“I do have my admirers,” Pothos agrees. “I’m sure you’ve plenty of time to accumulate your own.”
“No.”
“No,” Pothos repeats, seeming amused.
“I just meant — I’m not like you. I’m too old, and I’m not handsome and not pretty either, and I’m… People don’t want a man like me. Inexperienced and that, at my age.”
“How inexperienced?”
Davis risks a glance down. Pothos Hearn looks like he could eat him alive.
“I, um,” he mumbles, and Pothos looks up at him wit his eyes alight, his hands interlinking with one another and coming to rest on Davis’ hip again, squeezing.
“You’ve really got quite a lovely body,” says Pothos. “Jog, do you?”
“I — Yeah. Yeah, I, I jog. And I row.”
“Ah, that’ll be it,” murmurs Pothos, squeezing tighter and making Davis shiver, his knees pressing together. Pothos’ fingers are dancing over the surface of his abdomen, feeling the lines of the muscle there. “You row at school?”
“Yes.”
“You compete now?”
“In the local stuff.”
“Lots of trophies on your wall?”
“A few. Do you?”
“Have trophies? Oh, yes. Several. Not for sports, I’m afraid. I’d sooner kill a man before I ran a marathon — running a marathon might well kill me.”
“For tailoring?”
“Mmm-hmm. I’ve won all sorts of little awards.” His fingers tap against Davis’ waist, and Davis’ breath hitches in his throat. “I bet you’re a lovely mannequin.”
“I’m not handsome enough to be a model,” Davis demurs. Pothos chuckles, looking up at him, and Davis grips at the back of his hair — it makes Pothos sigh in a pleasured way Davis can’t quite cope with.
“Certainly you are,” he disagrees. “But I said mannequin.”
“What’s the difference?” asks Davis, and Pothos’ fingers creep up his side, up toward his armpit, making him laugh and squirm and then feel guilty, because there’s not quite enough space to squirm.
“A model is to be looked at. A mannequin, on the other hand, one touches.”
Davis laughs, feeling his cheek burns. “I don’t think that’s exactly the distinction.”
“Oh, it is,” says Pothos. “Trust me, I’m an expert. You can arrange a mannequin too, move it around, move it here, move it there. Bend it over.”
“You’re going to bend me over?”
“I thought you might bend me over,” says Pothos, sliding one hand up his back and making him shudder again. “But I don’t suppose I can make you do that, can I?”
“I don’t exactly need to be made. That sounds nice.”
Pothos’ laugh is a peal of bells. “Nice,” he repeats. “Is that how it sounds?”
“You can’t expect someone to be all well-spoken and that when you’re holding him in your lap.”
“Oh, I can do. I’m setting you a challenge, darling.”
“You’re the challenge.”
“Mmm, quite right.” Pothos’ hand comes up to cup the side of his jaw, and Davis loses the ability to breathe, feeling it catch in his throat or in his chest or somewhere. Pothos’ hand feels soft and delicate, but Davis can feel the muscle is strong. “Would you like to come home with me tonight, Davis?” asks Pothos quietly, his voice a warm purr, and Davis swallows.
“To be your mannequin?” he asks.
“If you like. I was thinking a bottle of wine and some sex, but I’m happy to pin something to you.”
Davis turns in his lap, stumbling almost out of it as he rushes to straddle Pothos’ thighs. The movement is clumsy, unpractised — there are men who come here who are really very good at moving in people’s laps, sitting in them, are used to it. He’s not one of them. Pothos seems anything but surprised that he’s trying anyway, his lips smirking, his hands sliding down from Davis’ hips to cup his arse.
“I’ve only done a bit,” Davis admits. “A bit. Not saying I’m a forty-year-old virgin, but I’m not exactly — what you’re used to.”
“Oh, I don’t like to get used to anything,” says Pothos, squeezing, his fingers pressing into the meat of Davis’ buttocks. “Variety is the spice of life, I always say.”
When Davis leans in, he hesitates once their noses brush against one another, and Pothos laughs before he closes the gap, tugging Davis down so that they’re mouth-to-mouth. His lips are so soft Davis can hardly believe it, plusher than anything. Pothos nips at Davis’ lower lip when he parts his to let Pothos kiss him more deeply, and Davis gasps in a hiccoughing noise, surprised at the heat and tingle the moment of pain leaves. His body feels hot and flushed all over.
He shifts his position, trying to adjust how he sits so that his legs aren’t as strangely cramped against the bench Pothos is sitting on, but he ends up almost grinding against Pothos’ belly, and the noise that comes out of him is torn out and ragged.
“Oh, the sweet sound of inexperience,” says Pothos musically, leaning in and nipping at the edge of Davis’ neck before inhaling deeply. “I do love noises like that. I’ll have to wring every one of them out of you.”
“Fuck,” says Davis.
“Yes, dear. That’s the plan.”
* * *
That night, Davis lies in Pothos’ bed, feeling as though he’s been wrung out like a cloth. He’s underneath a soft fleece blanket, propped up on pillows, watching Pothos feed his tarantula. He has another cage full of crickets, and he’s taken two of them out with chopsticks to pass them into her.
Pothos had offered to “introduce” Davis to the tarantula, which Davis has politely refused, but he’s interested in watching from this safe distance, craning his neck, as she comes out from her little log tunnel and pounces on one of the insects.
“What’s her name?” he asks.
“Tom Selleck.”
Davis laughs, his hand over his mouth, and he looks at Pothos’ boxer-clad arse, which is tempting him to get up and reach out to touch him even though he’s pretty sure he’d have a heart attack if he tried to have sex again tonight.
He thinks it might be worth it.
“Are your cats going to fight all night?” he asks after another miaowing scream and a thump filter in from the hall, and Pothos glances back at him, chuckling as he puts the lid on Tom Selleck’s tank.
“They’ll stop if I open the door — they’re fighting because they both want to get into the bedroom. Do you mind?”
“No, no,” says Davis. “I mean, they live here — I don’t. I always, ah. I always wanted cats. I just… couldn’t.”
“Why not?” asks Pothos, opening up the door, and Davis watches first a tubby orange cat rush in, its belly wobbling as it moves, followed by a tortoiseshell who seems to be made of muscle.
“My mother was allergic,” says Davis. “I lived with her my whole life. I, uh, I never… That’s weird. Sorry.”
“No,” says Pothos. “My sisters still live with my parents, and my grandmother, too. My aunts. You were her only son?”
“Yeah.”
“Then it makes sense you’d live with her and take care of her,” says Pothos, shrugging his shoulders. He picks up the muscular tortoiseshell when she tries to tug open the wardrobe, and Davis watches him fasten the doors shut with one of those child locks that goes over the door knobs. “She likes to get in and shed on my clothes,” he explains.
“Where do your family live?”
“Brighton, at the moment,” says Pothos mildly. “Until they get moved on again.”
“Oh,” says Davis, but he smiles when Pothos deposits the tortie in his lap — she’s heavy, and she purrs like an engine, falling onto her back and leaning back into his legs. “Pothos.”
“Hm?”
“Would you… like to go for dinner?”
“You’re hungry?”
“Not tonight, well — Yeah, a bit, I suppose, I could eat, but I just meant… Would you like to go out, another night? Or, or I could cook for you, if you wanted. I’m a good cook.”
Pothos looks down at him, his lips softly curved into a smile. “I’m not the sort of man people ask to dinner, you know,” he says quietly, not sounding too troubled about it. He says it as if he’s helpfully informing Davis of a faux-pas he’s made, a small error he hasn’t realised. “Being the sort of man I am. I’m really very fuckable, but not particularly romanceable.”
Davis feels nervous, uncertain. He wonders if he’s overstepping. “Do you want to be?”
“I would hardly complain.”
“Then — Then I’ll do it. You’ll have to be patient.”
“Is that so?”
“I’m not well-practised.”
“Well, that’s alright,” murmurs Pothos, cradling the big orange cat in his arms like a baby and making his way over. “As I said, nor am I.”
“What are they called?” asks Davis, scratching the tortie under her chin.
“This is Marmalade, you’re holding Marmite,” says Pothos. “The other one is Nutella.”
“There’s another one?”
“She’s shy, I’m afraid, not a slut for attention like these two. You’ll have to romance me for some while just to get a glimpse of her.”
“Okay,” says Davis.
When he looks up from Marmite’s belly to Pothos’ face, he sees a blossom of redness in his round cheeks, the skin darkening to show the colour, and Pothos looks like he’s trying to hide his smile, or trying not to giggle.
“Okay,” he repeats, and Davis swallows. “We’ll do that then.”
“We’ll do that,” Davis agrees.
They order in a takeaway and eat in their underwear, which Davis thinks foolishly is saving his clothes until he realises that Marmite has found where they’re folded and is sleeping on top of them.
Pothos scolds her on his behalf, and he looks wonderful doing it.
FIN.
Pothos Hearn also appears in:
https://johannestevans.medium.com/the-lord-of-the-woods-spring-bride-a1631465a0fd
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