Will was drying, Truman was washing, and Hugh was upstairs doing who-knew-what.

Okay, Truman probably knew what, but Will wasn’t asking. Part of the fun. Will was talking about the wedding, as usual.

“What’re you guys getting me? Best men get gifts, you know.”

“I believe Hugh procured a catalog full of restraints for just that purpose.

“Shut up.” He wouldn’t really get Will restraints for a best man gift. Would he? “Anyway. I need a fucking beard.”

“Do you need a beard, or do you need Molly? I’m trying to work out if this entire conversation is just an attempt to get me on board with you inviting Molly to the wedding.”

“She’s already invited to the wedding.”

“I’m relatively certain that Molly won’t just show up. If you want her to come, you might call her.”

“I don’t want to be a creepy stalker.”

Truman shook his head. “You dated for two years and you’ve seen her exactly one time since you broke up. Correct?”

“Okay, so I’m not a very good creepy stalker.” But that wasn’t quite the whole thing, and this was Truman, so Will could actually say it. “I think about her a lot.”

“If you called her and she told you she wasn’t interested, would you call her again?”

“Dude. No.”

“I’m not worried that you have latent stalker tendencies, Will. You should talk to Molly. If you like.”

One damn random encounter at a bar and he knew he wanted to get back together with Moll like it was the deepest, truest truth of his entire life.

Will cleared his throat. “I’m just saying I can’t come to the wedding by myself. I mean, I’m gonna be here for the next six days, right? If ever there was a time I should be able to keep my hands to myself, it’s now, and I’ve been super clingy since you guys got home.”

“Your argument is that you’ll need a beard at the wedding…so you can avoid doing dishes? I’m not sure I follow, Will.”

“Well, we’re doing dishes right now. But in an hour we’ll be doing a scene, so I can keep my shit together and not be all up in your shit.”
Truman glanced sideways at him, grinning. “I like it when you’re all up in my shit, William.”

William. “Or that.” And maybe he was inventing trouble, but he didn’t trust his poker face. Mostly because he didn’t have a fucking poker face. “Like if you ‘William’ me in front of your parents—fuck, Truman.”

“We’ll disinvite them. They’ll be so relieved.”

“We are not disinviting your fucking parents, Truman.”

“Hm. In that case, I guess I’ll try not to ‘William’ you in front of them without a very good reason.”

“Oh, like you wake up in the morning and think, ‘Gee, it’d be swell if my folks knew I liked to bang the best man.’”

“Oh, I like to do a lot more than bang the best man.”

Damn blush. “How the hell can you make me blush? Isn’t blushing a sign of embarrassment? I’m not embarrassed.”

“I’m sure Hugh could give you the entire biological breakdown.”

Then, as if continuing the thought, he added, “I want to experience flogging.”

Will did not break the dish he was drying, but it was a near thing. He set it carefully in the cabinet, folded the towel and put it on the counter, then punched Truman in the arm. Hard.

Another grin, in the direction of the dishwater.

“What. The fuck.”

“I haven’t told him yet.”

“Oh shit.” They’d played with it a little, the weird thing he and Truman had going where each of them not-so-secretly liked to share something with each other before they shared it with Hugh. Not experiences, so much, but ideas. Will wasn’t sure why being the first to know intensified it so fucking much, but it did.

Truman wanted to be flogged? Because: whoa.

He let the rinsed dishes pile up on his side of the sink and shifted to stand behind Truman, pressing against him, kissing the back of his neck. Will’s brain sorted things into “couple” and “non-couple,” and kissing Truman’s neck while he washed dishes was definitely more “couple” than not, but it felt like the thing to do. Here, if nowhere else, Will allowed himself to be guided by instinct.

Truman shut the water off, but didn’t turn.

“I want to feel it. It seems like such a huge part of your experience, and I have no idea, at all, what that feels like.”

“You’d have to take your shirt off,” Will said, which was maybe not the most awesome thing he could have said. Truman stiffened, and not in any of the good parts, so Will kissed his neck again and let his hands rest on Truman’s shirt-covered sides.

And oh holy fuck, this felt like some intimate shit right here.

“I thought he could do my thighs and ass instead. He’s done that with you.”

“He’ll want the whole canvas, Truman.” Will slid down to his knees, feeling daring, and invincible. “You know how he is.” He pulled Truman’s shirt out of his pants, then the black T-shirt he wore beneath it.

“Will,” Truman murmured.

“You want me to stop?”

“No. But I don’t understand why you make it okay.”

“God, that’s so fucking hot.”

It was. It was so much more than merely “hot.” Will made it okay (the other side of that coin was Hugh did not, and it didn’t matter how fucked up it was, Will loved that he could make Truman feel safe in this one specific way, and Hugh couldn’t).

His fingertips teased the skin over the waistband of Truman’s pants and Truman inhaled sharply, as if shocked by the touch.

Both of them heard Hugh on the stairs. Will waited until Hugh was nearly across the sitting room before leaning in and attaching his lips to Truman’s skin, just over his spine.

“I love it when Will comes to visit.” Will didn’t have to be looking to picture the smile on Hugh’s face. “Should I dry?”

“Please,” Truman said, pretty much losing the fight to sound normal. “Will.”

Will licked a stripe up along the exposed few inches of skin. “Tell him.” He gently felt around to completely un-tuck Truman’s shirt, clocking the reflexive suck-in of his stomach and subsequent release, even though he was uncomfortable, even though Truman didn’t like to be touched here, sort of, except maybe by Will.

“Will you flog me?” Truman asked his fiance, his fucking husband-to-be.

“Right now? And yes. God, yes, is that a joke? If this is a practical joke, it’s in poor taste, and I will make both of you pay.”

“It’s not a joke.” Will rubbed his cheek up and down Truman’s pants-covered ass. Did he dare reach his hands around again, rest them over the belly Truman was so fucking worried about? Here, in the kitchen, like it wasn’t a thing?

He decided he did dare.

Truman was soft. Will was bony, Hugh was a fucking machine—short and strong and powerful—but Truman was dad-like. He was bigger than Will; an inch taller, however-many pounds heavier it was when your gut hung over your belt, but you could still make yourself look like it didn’t, as long as you didn’t want to breathe.

“Truman,” Will said. He slid his hands up, fingers splayed, palms resting on either side of Truman’s belly button.

He was breathing fast. Well, both of them were, but Truman was breathing really fast.

“You want me to defend your honor?” Hugh asked, like it was a game. The water began to run in the sink again. “I’ll finish these.”

Truman’s posture changed as he braced against the edge of the counter, which helpfully pushed his ass back into Will. God, it was fucking amazing to be this goddamn wanton, to rub his forehead, his cheeks, even his nose across all that fabric, to know that in an hour, in two hours, whenever they got around to it, he’d have access to skin, to ass, to balls, to dicks.

Oh fucking god, he missed the boyfriends when he wasn’t here.

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