Romance. Yuri and Avi have sex – a new kind of sex, for Yuri.
Yuri Jentis, retired from paramedicine with a back injury, teaches IT and other skills in a town community centre. When Abraham Smith joins the attached library as an assistant, a painfully shy young man recently off a long-term hospital stay, Yuri finds himself quite attracted to him – though not as attracted to him as Abraham is clearly attracted to Yuri.
Yuri is distracted in shul, and he feels bad about it, about kind of zoning out when the rabbi is talking about today’s portion, is fucking glad when they’re back to actually reading and praying, where his whole body and mind can be put toward the process and not permitted to wander messily elsewhere.
Still, it’s not a bad thing, really – sex on the sabbath, that’s pretty fucking holy, he knows that, although he does feel bad for how quickly he’s gone after kiddush, doesn’t talk to basically anybody as he rushes home to take Red for his appointment.
He grips the carrier from the hallway closet and looks around the living room and the kitchen but doesn’t see either of his boys – he finds them in the bedroom, and standing in the doorway with Red’s carrier gripped loosely at his side, his mouth goes dry.
Avi is sprawled luxuriously across Yuri’s sheets, has stripped off his pyjamas (he was complaining in the morning about Yuri’s thermostat being so high until Yuri had laughed and said he would always choose a higher heating bill over sore and achy joints, and then the kid had flushed a little and excused himself to the bathroom to wash his face for way longer than he strictly needed) and laid on his belly, face mashed into the pillows, one knee curled up against some of the piled sheets.
The room is dark, but just enough light is filtering in around the blinds that Yuri can really see him, and probably see more of him than Avi would want him to, judging by his reticence last night to get undressed in front of Yuri or get in the bath with him – his body is a mess of scars and cuts, and Yuri had felt them in the night, sure, but it’s different, seeing them.
There’s cuts up and down Avi’s thighs and forearms, attempts at slitting the veins and arteries open here and there, but also just cuts for the sake of cutting himself, it looks like, thinner criss-crossing ones over a lot of the skin as well as the deeper, more corded knots of scarring where he’s obviously needed surgical intervention to sew ‘em shut.
On his back, though…
Yeah. There’s one healed up area that Yuri guesses is from an attempt at stabbing himself, unless the kid got in more fights with other patients than he mentioned, but on his back, there’s some old scars, and they’re not as bad as Yuri’s seen on some people, no, but he doesn’t like that he recognises them, where a belt has made hard enough contact to split the skin and scar it.
Fuck.
Still, looking past the cartography of suicide attempts and abuses that the kid wears on his skin, for better or worse, Yuri can still appreciate his actual body, appreciate the sight of the lean and smooth muscle, the thickness of his shoulders and upper arms, his thighs and calves, his glutes. His ass is fat and round and looks obscenely pale compared to the darkness of Yuri’s sheets, even though Avi’s skin isn’t as fair and freckled as Yuri’s is, has more of an olive undertone to it; his waist is solid, but is still noticeably narrower than his shoulders, and Yuri’s free hand itches with the desire to grip at it, to hold the kid tightly until Yuri’s fingertips leave bruises.
Red, who is sprawled right next to the naked Avi in a similarly sprawling position, half-opens his eyes and then suddenly chirrups, noticing Yuri is there and sitting up. He looks fucking bedraggled with sleep, had obviously been very happy lying next to Avi in bed, and the fur on one side of his face is flattened at a funny angle where he’d apparently fallen asleep with his cheek on Avi’s dropped book.
Grinning, Yuri gently picks him up and scoops him into the carrier – he manages to get it shut just as Red wakes up enough to realise what this awful thing means, that he’s being kidnapped for some procedure or other again, and Avi stirs and then sits up, rubbing one eye and yawning, as Red yowls a protest and scrabbles to get out.
“I won’t be long,” Yuri murmurs, grabbing his pills from the bedside drawer and popping one, so that it’ll have kicked in by the time he’s back. “Maybe twenty minutes, okay?”
“Mm,” Avi says, although even sleepy and barely stirring from the bed, Yuri’s heart pangs at how whip-fast his hand goes to pull the top sheet over his body, even in the dark.
Despite his anxiety at being in a veterinary office again, Red purrs in the arms of the pretty tech with the pink scrubs and blue-dyed hair, and Yuri doesn’t mind leaving him to it.
He tries his best not to fucking think about it, when he gets back out and walks home – it’s a really quick procedure, he knows, for boy cats, doesn’t incur the same risk as the whole hysterectomy does for the girls, but any anaesthetic incurs risk.
When he gets back in, Avi is back in Yuri’s pyjamas, his hair a little mussed from bed with some of his curls sticking together, and standing in the kitchen – in a big salad bowl he’s tossing mixed ingredients from the fridge, lettuce and tomato and cucumber and cheese, salad onions.
“There’s red cabbage in the fridge, too,” Yuri says. “Pickled.”
Avi’s eyes light up and he turns back to the fridge, and it makes Yuri laugh a little as he watches Avi trace along the fridge’s door shelf and take out the jar, immediately using a fork to generously add it to the bowl. His lunches are often strong-tasting things, and he goes for the sour and the bitter – capers and olives, onions and garlics, pickled stuff, smoked stuff.
Tossing the bowl again, puts a saucepan lid on top and slides it onto the shelf, then wipes his hands off.
“You have ham in your fridge,” Avi says, and Yuri laughs.
“I sure do,” he says. “Who are you, my bubbe?”
“Mezuzahs as you have them,” Avi says, gesturing around the house, “so much Judaica. I was surprised to find your kitchen is not kosher.”
“Never got in the habit,” Yuri admits, and he rubs the back of his neck, feeling a little self-conscious just at how embarrassed he is, ‘cause he does tend to clean up his kitchen a little before Larissa and the kids visit, ditches the pork and the frozen shrimp dumplings he normally stocks for himself.
It’s not like she’d care – she’s always kept a kosher kitchen, always enjoyed the ritual of it, the certainty of it, he thinks, but she’s never been judgemental about people who don’t, and when Evie had first started getting really into Japanese food, she’d said it was her choice if she wanted to eat the other kinds of fish, try the whole menu.
It was Yuri who’d stepped in and said no to her trying sushi, if she wanted to try all the different rolls and nigiri, at the traditional mom-and-pop place she wanted at first, because it was a tiny little place up a bunch of stairs in a few criss-crossed alleyways.
“You’ve never eaten shellfish your whole life, there’s a good chance you could have an allergy and not know it,” he’d said. “If you want to try the crab and shrimp and squid, go to one of the shitty chain places in the mall, where they have a hundred people with first aid training and a defib and passers-by with spare epi-pens, and the ambulance has easy access.”
Evie had been smiling at him – she didn’t even sound sarcastic, just kinda fond, so much like her mother, as she asked, “You ever think your job has made you paranoid, Uncle Yuri?”
“Life has made me paranoid, kid,” he’d replied.
(What Evie didn’t know is on the job that day, he’d been glued to the fucking radio as soon as Larissa had texted him the picture of the big fucking belt with all its fancy dishes on, and he hadn’t been able to relax and unclench his fucking asshole until two hours later, when he knew for certain that it was all okay.
Larissa had known, just from how he was, just from knowing him, but she hadn’t mentioned it, hadn’t teased.)
“You don’t keep kosher, right?” Yuri asks as he pours out some lemonade, and Avi shakes his head.
“Budgetary concerns with our country’s nebulously maintained mental healthcare system being as they are, and my being unfortunately foisted on the state, what with my issues,” Avi says, speaking airily but not without bitterness, nudging a glass toward Yuri for him to pour some lemonade for him too, “the assumption would of course be to prioritise my placement in Jewish facilities, and this would annoy me, at times, when I’d been in a Christian one for a while. Pork is very cheap – one grows accustomed to it. Now I eat it out of stubbornness.”
“Technically,” Yuri says, “I bet you weren’t in Christian facilities. They were probably secular.”
“Would that such a thing existed in this country,” Avi replies scathingly, and Yuri laughs.
“It’s not as bad in regular hospitals,” Yuri says. “The real god in this country is called Insurance – not a forgiving one, I might fucking add. But long-term facilities tend to attract, uh…”
Avi, looking him in the eyes, says, “Evangelish tshudatshkes.”
Yuri does know that one, and his lips twitch. “Freaks, sure,” he says. “Most nurses and doctors in the city have to be more subtle about it, especially in the big hospitals. They single you out?”
“As much as anybody is singled in these places,” Avi murmurs. “There would be other Jews, Muslims, Blacks, people a nurse of this sort would be strange about, intent upon. Would desire to pray over – the better to exert her evangelical power.”
“You’re a cynic, you know that?”
“The faith and the temple I can leave behind,” Avi says. “But the pessimism, I think, is genetic – and incurable.”
“The other stuff, though, you’ve been cured of,” Yuri says, advancing, and he enjoys the warmth of Avi’s body as he slides his palms over the other man’s shoulders, feels the muscle under the fabric of the pyjamas, and Avi smiles, leaning in toward him, their chests together.
“I wouldn’t give my caregivers such credit as all that,” Avi murmurs, stroking a palm over Yuri’s chest, stroking over his pec before looking up and into his face. “They tried a great many therapies with me, over the years, and it took a long time, a good deal of repetition. It was an unpleasant cycle, and I loathed most every hospital I was interred in – but what else would have worked to keep me alive? I hardly know.
“I hated myself, my body, hated the sensation of living – I was for a long time ever dissociated in one way or another from my body unless I was cutting it or bruising it or starving it, unless I was fucking or running or climbing or…” He sighs, and taps Yuri’s breast, walks his fingertips over his ribcage. “As I say, Yuri – were it not for the hospital programs I have suffered, I wouldn’t be alive now, and I am glad to be living now, but for so long, I had no liberty, no identity. At such a time as I ever felt as though I were improving mentally or emotionally, when I began to want to live, I would feel horribly trapped by the institution around me, and stifled by it – unable to imagine feeling whole and complete for long enough, to behave long enough to earn my freedom, I would lose hope. Wish to die again. Rinse, repeat, ad nauseum – ad infinitum.”
“That’s fucked up,” Yuri says, and he can’t help but think of any poor fucking kid he’s taken in on a psych hold, every person they’ve had to sedate or restrain in the back of the bus, knowing that some of them were headed for criminal charges or long-term psychiatric care after the ER was finished sewing up their slit wrists or digging the bullet out of their body or pumping the drugs out of their stomachs. “I’m sorry.”
“It is fucked up,” Avi agrees. “I should like to say something smart and righteous and triumphant – “It hurt me, but everything hurt me: such is my survival a victory,” but it feels less like a victory and more like dumb luck. I endured a great many therapies, well-administered or ill, effective or not. It took a long time to feel any certainty in the idea of living, for the small pleasures to stay with me enough to sustain me over the horrors I feared. A lot of repetition over time, and so much of it, I hated, but I cannot think what would have been better for me.”
Yuri nods, and he feels himself smile as Avi takes him by the hand and leads him out of the kitchen, toward the bedroom.
“Did something change?” he asks. “Did something make you… Did something make you feel differently?”
“There was no epiphany, if that is what you are asking me,” Avi says. “There was no sudden realisation, no parting of the clouds. Merely that one day, finally, it had been three months, and I hadn’t lost my progress and made an attempt on my life or my safety. Then, it had been six. Nine, then. I was as surprised as my doctors were.”
“I’m glad you’re not dead,” Yuri says, kicking the bedroom door shut and taking two handfuls of Avi’s generous ass, squeezing. “This tuchus wouldn’t look so good if you’d killed yourself.”
“You don’t know that,” Avi says. “Some undertakers can do very fine work, I’m informed.”
“Jesus,” Yuri says, and Avi laughs, falling back onto the bed.
Gesturing to the wall, he asks, “Do you like Klimt very much?”
Yuri looks at the two prints on the one wall – Judiths I and II. “I like these ones,” Yuri says. “I saw them years ago, uh, it was this gallery showing, it was just about art nouveau in general, and symbolism, and stuff. I liked that they were biblical, but not, you know, Christian – I like how sexy they are, and that doesn’t feel too Christian either.”
“Klimt largely painted members of the Jewish bourgeoisie in Vienna,” Avi says. “It is nice, to page through an example of an artist’s portraiture and see dark curls like mine painted so lovingly, and not as part of a caricature.”
“Was he Jewish?”
“No, he was Catholic, in fact, but many of his backers and sponsors were Jews. The appeal in his work was in its modernity and the ways in which it was avant-garde, I believe – the showiness of his work, the gaudiness of the bright gold and layered patterns, jewel-like, shimmering and so very textural, was of distinct appeal to the Jewish nouveaux riches, more so, I would say, than the more traditional portraiture and artistry that had for so long been sponsored by the gentile aristocrats of Vienna.”
Yuri likes how he talks about it, about art. He gestures with his long, pretty fingers toward the prints as he speaks, and Yuri bets it’d be interesting, going to a museum with him, hearing his analysis of the art – he gets a little of that from Evie, when she talks to him about anime or cartoons or other stuff, but what Avi has going on is more academic, and passionate in a quieter way, a different way. Less colourful, maybe, less vibrant.
Not less wonderful, though.
Standing over the kid now, his knee rested on the edge of the mattress, Yuri grins down at him, and Avi looks back at him, then tilts his head an inch to one side, his dark brows furrowing and knitting together.
“What is it? Why do you smile at me like this?”
“I just think it’s cute,” he says. “How you know so much – you know everything, almost. You’re exactly what people imagine, when they think of a librarian.”
Avi laughs at that, raising one foot and curling his heel around the back of one of Yuri’s thighs, tugging him closer. He’s blushing a little, and worrying his lower lip with his teeth – one of his hands twitches, as if to go up and to hide his face, but then he keeps it at its side.
“Stop with the flattery, Mr Jentis,” he says. “Come down here and kiss me.”
Yuri kisses him, smiles into Avi’s mouth as he feels the younger man smile first, and it feels good, their bodies together like this, Avi warm and muscular and solid underneath him. Yuri’s fingers slide a little under the pyjama shirt, not pushing it up but gripping loosely at the kid’s hips – he stiffens a little when Avi tries to grip him back and feels the edge of Yuri’s harness.
“I can take it off,” Yuri says.
“I don’t think that you should,” Avi murmurs, stroking a thumb over the side of his cheek. “You are meant to keep it on for exercise, hm?”
The pill has kicked in and then some, and he’s half-hard, rubbing up against Avi’s thigh and enjoying the heat of his body, enjoying the hardness in Avi’s own pants, more so than he would have expected.
Yuri laughs, and when Avi knees at him Yuri shoves him, and then they’re wrestling on the bed, rolling over each other – it’s dark in the bedroom, the blinds pulled, but with the sun coming in from the corners, Yuri can see a lot, and he’s sure that he can see more than Avi wishes he could.
Maybe that’s why he asks, quietly, urgently, mouth against Yuri’s neck and face hidden, “Does it bother you, Yuri? That I will not go to temple with you, that I will not attend shul?”
“No, course not,” Yuri says. “Not if you don’t wanna.”
“Do you think I am bad?”
“No,” Yuri says immediately, and he fucking hates the ache in Avi’s voice, the insecurity he hears in it. He kisses the kid’s temple, his cheek, his jaw, his neck, the top of his chest where his pyjama shirt is open, strokes down his sides. “No, I don’t think you’re bad at all. I think bad things have been done to you – I think you’ve survived bad things. If you don’t ever want to go to a temple service again, that’s your fucking business.”
He leans back and he looks at Avi’s face, which is distant, a mask, his lips pressed loosely together, his eyes far away for a moment. “People have survived worse than I have. Received less assistance than I have.”
“Yeah?” Yuri asks, challenging him as best he can. “How many?”
“I am weak, perhaps,” Avi says.
“You’d know better than me,” Yuri says. “But if you’re strong,” he says, leaning down and nipping at the shell of Avi’s ear, feeling him groan and go loose beneath Yuri’s body, “it’ll be more fun for me to break you down.”
“Oh?”
Avi flips them over and straddles Yuri’s waist, grinding down against him, and impatient as he is, he doesn’t unbutton the buttons of Yuri’s polo shirt but rips downward, popping off two buttons, and Yuri laughs indignantly and knees the kid hard.
“You little shit,” he says, smacking Avi’s thigh and taking a lot of fucking pleasure in the way he laughs, the tightness and awkwardness and quiet self-loathing delicately shaking out of him, bit by bit, with every moment of laughter and every second of his smile.
Avi kisses him deeply and bitingly, ruching up Yuri’s shirt whilst being careful not to push too much at the brace underneath, and Yuri laughs into his mouth and grabs a handful of the kid’s ass.
“You’re gonna pay for that,” Yuri promises him, and Avi smiles – it’s a shy smile, not as confident as the one before, but it’s pretty fucking sweet, and he’s got such lovely eyelashes, so pretty up close like this.
“I’ll pay for you,” Avi says. “What is the going rate, hm? Is it cheaper for an older model?”
“Older model!” Yuri repeats, scandalised, and spanks him again, making Avi laugh and wiggle in his place, and gripping him by his thighs, Yuri wants to fucking move him, wishes he could lift him and throw him around, pin him against a wall or hoist him up on a counter, but he can feel how fucking dense he is, how heavy he is with all the muscle on him – his back fucking twinges just thinking about it, a threatened ache starting just from Yuri leaning into him, let alone actually trying to move him.
He flips them again instead, and Avi kicks and shoves playfully at him as he gets Yuri’s shirt off over his head and pushes down his jeans – he lets Yuri shove down the PJ pants, but stops his hand when Yuri goes to push up the shirt, and so Yuri drops his hands again, focuses on sliding his hands over the kid’s thighs.
He can feel the scars under his palms, feel the texture of them, but they’re not as bad as the ones on Avi’s torso, probably, or the ones on the inside of his wrists.
“You like it when people think we’re father and son, do you not?” Avi asks. “Does it make you hard, Yuri? The two of us being mistaken for something so innocent, when your intentions are in truth perverted?”
“You tell me,” Yuri says, pulling the kid’s hand to his cock, and he groans as Avi immediately slides his palm against the base of Yuri’s prick and then grips it, twisting his hand as he jacks him a few times. It’s different, Yuri thinks, a man handling his dick – he’s got one himself, after all.
Pinning him down and working his hips into Avi’s hand, Yuri kisses down the side of his neck, and he thrills at the answering moan he gets, spreading his palm over the kid’s belly and keeping him pinned as he nudges his thighs apart. His mouth opens, lips parting, looking at him properly like this – he has a pretty nice dick, Yuri thinks, maybe five inches, and it has a graceful fucking arch to it, and a very nice set of balls, he thinks, almost pretty ones. He’s not as hairy as you might expect, what with darkness of his hair and how it curls, and a lot of the scars cut through the hair, but even with that in mind, the hair on his balls is surprisingly downy, dark and curling neatly so it looks like one of those fucking bags Scotsmen wear with their kilts.
His asshole, though?
The kid’s asshole is small, a tiny little dark star of a pucker, and with a spit-slick thumb Yuri touches over it and wonders how anything could ever fit inside, let alone his fucking dick, which is a little above average – not even that fucking big.
“Look at you stiffen,” Avi murmurs. “You are nervous?”
“Don’t wanna hurt you,” Yuri admits, and Avi’s laugh is soft and breathless – it sounds flattered, gooey and soft like Yuri’s told him he looks pretty or said something fucking romantic to him. Pulling Yuri up by the hair, Avi grabs for the lube from the side table, and that’s all the warning he gets before Yuri is being tugged and moved into place, his dick lined up, and—
“Ah, fuck, fuck,” he groans at the fucking incredible sensation of heat and warmth and tight embrace all around him, not even sliding into the kid’s ass but just between his plump, well-muscled thighs, and with his knees together Avi tugs Yuri’s hand to grip them under the backs of his knees, letting him pull Avi into the best position as Yuri fucks forward.
It feels so fucking good – how can it feel this good, when he’s not even inside, feel so hot and wet and all-encompassing, feel so vital, feel so fucking incredible? It doesn’t feel any less like he’s fucking the kid, as he grinds between the channel of his thighs, and when his cock slides against Avi’s, Avi whines in response, whines in concert, both of them moaning together, a gorgeous fucking harmony if ever there was one.
He’s never done this before – he’s fucked a woman’s titties, or more often laid back as she wrapped her tits around his dick, and he’s even tried anal a few times with one girl or other, but this, fucking between somebody’s thighs like this, feeling so fucking intimate even though there’s degrees of separation between him and actual penetration.
Avi is squirming because it fucking feels good to him, and he’s gripping at the sheets, pushing up and into Yuri’s hips, gripping at the sheets. His head is back on the pillows, and his face is fucking beautiful like this, the way he’s moaning, the way he’s sprawled underneath Yuri like this, pretty as a fucking picture.
“Turns you on too, doesn’t it?” Yuri asks, a little breathless, a little strained. “That father-son shit – you’re shy as Hell until it comes to touching me back in public, kissing me, scandalising anybody and everybody, thinking they’re seeing a nice father-son moment and realising they’re seeing two perverts at play instead.”
Avi laughs, and he doesn’t fucking show any shame about it – he laughs and he nods and then he moans again.
“Lucky for you, I like it,” Yuri mutters. “Will you enjoy it when I do split open that tight little hole of yours, pin you on Daddy’s cock?”
Avi’s noise sharpen in tone, get a little louder, and Yuri is aware he’s grunting himself as he fucks the kid’s thighs, grinds their dicks together – as well as the lube, he can feel Avi’s dick getting a little wet, too, dripping a little, and he’d never thought of that before as something sexy, something he’d notice, if he thought about fucking a guy, his dick dripping. His body strains, and he arches up and into Yuri’s hand, his body.
“Yeah? You like that?”
“Yuri—”
“I liked it when you called me sir a few weeks back.”
“Sir, please—”
“Please? Please what, kiddo?”
Avi’s breath hitches, and he shudders, his head pressing into the pillow.
“Please, keep saying what a sweet little slut you are, looking all shy and innocent when you’re greedy for a dick between your thighs, before you even get it inside you? My hands on you, my mouth in your ear, my body pinning you down?”
Yuri can hardly fucking believe it – even with his pills, it normally takes a while for him to get off, if he’s feeling lucky and he even gets there, because the pill would let him get it up, but not necessarily get him over the psychological hump, or what fucking ever, let him actually come.
This beautiful, beautiful boy, it seems, has the opposite fucking problem – he reaches up and grabs helplessly, desperately, at Yuri’s arms and his shoulders as he comes, and Yuri eases his thighs apart and leans down over him, feeling the kid’s cock spurt between their bodies, little ropes of white over his belly and sticking in the curling hair.
“You come pretty easy,” Yuri murmurs, leaning in and nudging their noses against one another, kissing the side of the kid’s mouth. “A bad man could do very dangerous things to you, with knowledge like that.”
“Oh,” says Avi dreamily, loose and limp on the sheets. “Do you know any bad men?”
“I have one in mind.”
“Is he as old as you are?” Avi asks, and then yelps, then giggles, after Yuri pinches his side. “Do you want me to suck you?” he asks as Yuri grabs a tissue and wipes him down, and he bundles him up in his blankets and pulls him into his lap, sitting back against the headboard.
“Nah, I, uh, it’s not always easy for me to get off first time,” Yuri admits. “Just this is nice for now.”
“This is nice,” Avi agrees, their noses brushing against one another before Avi kisses him again, softly, tenderly. “You’re nice.”
“Me? No, no, kid, I’m baaad,” Yuri retorts, and Avi laughs again, softly, and then averts his eyes – fuck, he’s actually fucking blushing, on top of being flushed from the exertion.
“Perhaps tomorrow we can go bowling again,” Avi murmurs, fingering over Yuri’s shoulder. “And watch a movie after, yes? I could sit on your cock while we watch.”
“Jesus, the mouth on you,” Yuri mutters. “Sex isn’t hard for you at all, is it?”
“I like sex,” Avi says placidly.
“I got that impression,” Yuri murmurs. “It’s a pretty contagious passion, I could get to like it even more than I already do, with you.”
“Your back is alright?”
“Yeah. You sit, okay? I’ll get us some of that salad and we can eat here in bed.”
Avi touches his thumb against Yuri’s lower lip, then kisses him again before he obeys and slides off his lap. He looks pretty fucking good, in Yuri’s bed, like this, fucked-out and blissful, all fucking happy, even in the dark.
What a shame, how quick he is about getting the PJ bottoms back on, hiding himself in the sheets – that’ll change, he hopes, the longer they are together.
“Be right back,” he says.
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