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Kelvin Gemstone’s hair smelled faintly of apples. It was barely there, a gentle touch of sweet fruit, only detectable if you were close enough to taste him too.
The same could not be said for the thick, pungent cherry blossom hand lotion Kelvin used for about a month, until Judy complained loudly at church lunch that Kelvin “stank like he just went elbow-deep in some mall goth pussyhole,” and in a fit of rage, he threw the little tube of lotion at the trash can in the men’s bathroom at Jason’s Steakhouse. Keefe watched as it bounced off the wall, missed the trash can, and hit the tile floor.
“I don’t think you smell like what Judy said you smell like,” Keefe had reassured him.
Privately, though, he agreed with Judy. Kelvin’s hands did smell like he’d just gone elbow-deep in some mall goth pussyhole. It was a classic scent from an era when malls were a thing and smartphones weren’t, and Keefe and his friends would steal from the Bath and Body Works and the Hot Topic, just for the thrill of it. They were too young to know the employees weren’t paid enough to care when high schoolers stuffed their bondage pants with travel-size lotions and Slipknot stickers.
They’d celebrate the spoils at Keefe’s house, where adults were scarce and weed and crappy beer were abundant. The girls would slather their arms with that lotion, and there was always a decent chance of stoned makeouts turning into fingerbanging on the couch. Scents would mingle, and then his mama’s living room would smell like weed, sex, and Japanese Cherry Blossom.
The Devil made quick work of unsupervised teens.
And so Keefe helped the abandoned tube of lotion find its way into the trash of the men’s restrooms at Jason’s Steakhouse.
He disliked lying to Kelvin, but he disliked the smell of the lotion even more. It covered Kelvin’s natural musk—and, apparently, the scent of his shampoo. After the incident at church lunch, Kelvin switched to an unscented hand lotion, and suddenly, in the midst of Kelvin’s afternoon massage, Keefe caught a whiff of something unfamiliar on the air.
“Is that a new shampoo I’m detecting, Brother Kelvin?”
“Nope. Same one I’ve been using. Why?”
Keefe pressed a hard palm into Kelvin’s right trap, leaning into him with his full body weight. Before he relented, Keefe took a long, dramatic sniff of Kelvin’s hair, nose barely an inch from Kelvin’s bare neck.
“You smell good, that’s all,” Keefe mused. “Apples?”
“Yup.” With Kelvin’s face nestled in the cradle of the massage table, Keefe couldn’t see his smile—but he could hear it in his voice. Gentle, warm, reflective. “Reminds me of the apple trees ‘round the house in Freeman’s Gap. Mama used to take us up there every fall to pick ‘em.”
Keefe smiled, too. He relished these soft, honest moments whenever they surfaced. They never lasted long, before Kelvin would crack a joke, and Keefe would have to decide between letting Kelvin retreat behind his walls or dismantling them brick by brick.
He usually chose the latter.
Keefe dug his thumbs into Kelvin’s traps, rubbing hard circles into his shoulder blades, and Kelvin unleashed a pleased groan loud enough to rattle the framed Timecop poster on the wall.
“Well, next time you visit, maybe you can bring some of them good apples back, and I’ll make a pie with ‘em,” Keefe offered coyly. “The guys at the DMV ate my pie all the time.”
“I ain’t been since Mama died. Feels weird going since Uncle Baby Billy has the land now. And hanging out with him is kinda garbage.” Kelvin glanced at Keefe over his shoulder and flashed him a smile. “Next time, though, you’re def coming with. I wanna taste your pie.”
Keefe’s smile broadened, and Kelvin laid his head back down, satisfied, as Keefe’s warm, greased palms began to knead his bicep.
“There’s this lady on King Street—oof, yeah, right there—who makes custom soaps and stuff,” Kelvin continued, melting into the table under Keefe’s expert touch. “So I got her to start adding some of that gooooood apple stank to mine.”
There was the joke, the retreat behind the wall. He said it with a wiggle and jazz hands, like he was greeting the youth group for Holy Karaoke Night, and not getting rubbed down from neck to crack by his best dude friend.
“Custom soaps sounds nice. Especially since your skin’s so sensitive.” Keefe’s hands wandered tenderly down Kelvin’s lats, coming to a rest just above his glutes. “I still feel rotten about that time I drew you a hot bath and put you in with the—those bad bubbles.” Keefe shuddered as he began kneading Kelvin’s hips. “That rash…”
“That rash sucked big time. Felt like I went and rolled around in a poison ivy patch with my penis all the way out.”
Keefe paused for a beat. “... You would have been right to ask me to leave after that.”
That got Kelvin’s attention. He rose from his stomach and propped himself up on his elbows to look at Keefe over his shoulder. “Hey. C’mon. We don’t talk that bullcrud, remember?”
Of course Keefe knew the bubble bath mishap was water under the bridge. But hearing Kelvin forgave him, wanted him, needed him—was a powerful high. Keefe was a glutton for it.
And if Kelvin could forgive that sin, then maybe God would too.
He released Kelvin’s hips, and Kelvin rolled over onto his back. The hot towel Keefe had laid so delicately over his bottom (to “exfoliate your cheeks and gooch, brother”) rolled with him, but Kelvin was sometimes carelessly immodest, especially with Keefe. If Keefe saw a stray ball or dangly tip, well, it wouldn’t be the first time. Nothing to fuss about.
But when Kelvin sat up and swung his legs over the side of the table, the towel dropped to his side, exposing him fully, and he let it fall away without a second glance.
It was then that Keefe would silently thank the Lord for blessing him with just enough virtue to resist lust. He’d taught himself to appreciate Kelvin’s nude form as a work of art, evidence of his devotion to God, because resisting his basest urges was necessary to maintain the peace of their friendship or partnership or whatever it was that Kelvin was so hesitant to label.
Resistance was a temporary measure, of course. Resistance was a dance for the daylight. A performance, pandering to Kelvin’s demons. Resistance lit the way for indulgence after dark. And Keefe did indulge, when they retired to Kelvin’s massive bed that had at some point become their massive bed, where sleepless tosses and turns would become friendly spooning, and friendly spooning would become boyish tumbles and tickles of the ol’ titty meats.
And tumbles and tickles would become Kelvin pinning Keefe to the bed, straddling Keefe’s waist and squeezing the breath out of him with thick, strong thighs.
Keefe jostling him with a playful roll of the hips and beaming like Kelvin was sunshine after a hurricane.
Kelvin grinding on Keefe’s groin until they were both hard, separated only by the fabric of Kelvin’s Calvins, because Keefe didn’t like wearing pajamas. (Or underwear, for that matter.)
Keefe’s hands in Kelvin’s hair and on his face and behind his ears. Petting. Praising.
Kelvin gripping Keefe’s bicep with one hand and stroking himself with the other.
Keefe’s slick fingers buried in Kelvin’s ass, milking him, wringing unholy orgasms from depths Kelvin never knew he had.
Kelvin on his stomach, legs and cheeks spread wide, drooling into his satin pillowcase. Keefe draped over his back, gripping his hips, pounding into him, tender but determined. Fucking him.
No—making love to him. That’s what anyone else would call it, if they felt Keefe’s gentle touch, if they knew how Kelvin’s climax was Keefe’s climax, if they saw their shared grin through the ascent. Fucking was something Keefe did in a past life. It was an escape. A temporary distraction from past due bills, substances, and the melancholy of it all. Now, fucking was something other people did. People who weren’t saved, yet. God didn’t much appreciate fucking.
(Lovemaking, though? Totally up God’s alley, as far as Keefe was concerned, and that was that. One could fret excessively over the alleged details of what kinds of lovemaking God liked and didn’t like. Kelvin certainly did.)
After coming, Keefe would pull Kelvin close, nose to nose, lips parted and waiting to see if Kelvin would finally, finally close the gap. But Kelvin wouldn’t kiss him. He hadn’t kissed him ever. He wouldn’t kiss him during sex, or kiss him good night after.
He hadn’t kissed him last Saturday night, when they hooked up twice in an evening—once for each time Kelvin beat Keefe at air hockey, which Keefe was really really good at, and might have let Kelvin win. It was fun, though. It was almost worth weathering the next day’s sermon while sore and short on sleep. It was definitely worth the cocked eyebrows they earned from Jesse and Judy at church lunch when Kelvin mentioned, absentmindedly, that he and Keefe were up late the night before.
Kelvin hadn’t even kissed Keefe on Keefe’s birthday. But he did gift Keefe an awesome electric unicycle and surprised him with a best friends-only trip in the Gladiator to a fancy pants cabin in Asheville, where people were unlikely to recognize them. They were even less likely to blink twice at two best dude friends and brothers in Christ out to dinner, getting a little too handsy and flirty to be just bros. So that made up for it.
But their spiritual connections would always be more important than their physical connections, so Keefe didn’t chase him, knowing Kelvin would outrun the pursuit. He was now well-practiced in convincing himself that a fully nude Kelvin Gemstone on the massage table was no more erotic to him than Adam was to Eve—before she bit the forbidden fruit, of course.
“You belong here,” Kelvin continued firmly. “Who else is gonna build the Smut Busters with me?” He looked Keefe in the eyes and didn’t break their shared gaze even as he hopped off the massage table. It was Keefe who broke it, reluctantly, as he retrieved Kelvin’s monogrammed robe from its hook and helped him slip his outstretched arms into the soft terry cloth.
(Kelvin’s thumbs had long since healed from his father’s assault, but sometimes Keefe still helped him dress. The intimacy of it warmed Keefe from the inside out, and on days when they indulged in the little dressing ritual and sex, it almost made up for the lack of kisses. Almost.)
Keefe made his way behind Kelvin, bringing his chin to a rest on Kelvin’s shoulder and pulling him into a loose embrace to tie the sash of the bathrobe into a comfortable front knot. “You’re right. It’s important work, brother. I wouldn’t want you carrying all those nasty books and rubber b-holes on your own.”
When the knot pulled taut, Kelvin spun around to face Keefe. He was close enough for Keefe to feel Kelvin’s breath on his lips, and to catch another whiff of faint, sweet apple.
Close enough to kiss.
Close enough for Keefe to spot a stray piece of robe lint on Kelvin’s forehead.
Keefe reached up and plucked the fuzz off Kelvin’s face. Kelvin’s eyes followed his hand, relishing the way Keefe’s large, warm fingers lingered on his brow and brushed down his cheeks before pulling his hand away.
“‘Just a piece of robe crud… stuff,” Keefe murmured.
But before Keefe could decide what to do with his hand next, Kelvin grabbed his wrist, halting his arm mid-air and staring straight into his eyes. Keefe could feel the tremble echoing through Kelvin’s grip, the sticky sweat of Kelvin’s palm, the fear rattling through Kelvin’s bones. Kelvin swallowed, and—
That song from Top Gun started blaring from somewhere down below, muffled. Not the Berlin one, Keefe liked that one. It was the corny dude-ish one, and it was Kelvin’s ringtone, blaring from his jeans, still in a messy pile on the floor from where he’d stripped for his massage. Kelvin dropped Keefe’s wrist as quickly as he’d grabbed it, as if he’d touched a hot pan on the stove, and glanced in the direction of the dulcet tones of Kenny Loggins.
“Uh. Yup. I bet that’s a guy calling for—the Photoshop guy calling about the Smut Busters logo. Gotta take that.”
Keefe watched as Kelvin dug his glowing iPhone out of his jeans pocket, answered it, and started chatting with The Photoshop Guy. He watched, but he wasn’t listening.
In recent months, he’d developed an occasional ache in his chest that he didn’t like and didn’t want to think about. It came and went, especially when Kelvin came so close to getting it only to disappoint Keefe yet again. A seed of doubt, nourished by moments like these and waiting for the right moment to burst forth from its dirt.
That moment was not the right moment. But Keefe felt it taking root inside of him, and ignoring it wasn’t making it go away.
A few minutes later, Kelvin’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts.
“Keefe, you still with me, man?” He’d ended the call with The Photoshop Guy, and he was grinning like he’d already forgotten what happened five minutes before.
Keefe nodded.
“That was the guy, and he just finished the Smut Busters logo. Look.”
Kelvin approached Keefe, careful to leave more space between them than there was before, and held up his phone, showing off the vaguely obscene Smut Busters logo mark.
Keefe cracked a small but genuine smile. “Now that’s sharp. Even better than the God Squad art, I think.”
Kelvin slapped his phone screen enthusiastically. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about. With this, we’re gonna make a real difference in the community. Shut down all that icky business.”
“So… you think God really cares a lot about that stuff?” Keefe said it softly, so that Kelvin would take it as innocent curiosity, rather than a challenge.
“Psssh. ‘Course He does, Keefe. Jeez. Anybody could just walk into one of these grosso places right off the street and buy those, like, big vagina and butt dildos. Kids. Grandmas.” Kelvin scoffed as if it were obvious, like shopkeepers everywhere were selling sex toys to children and like Grandma didn’t have the right to a little fun after Grandpa’s Cialis wore off. “So, when there’s less dildos around, there’s less sinning, and more people go to heaven.” He gestured towards the ceiling. “It’s just simple math, my man.”
Keefe nodded, not entirely convinced but unwilling to question it any further. “Yeah, dildos. For sure. Well, you know I’m always on your team.”
Kelvin stuck his phone into his robe pocket and clapped his hands together. “I gotta go meet with Photoshop Guy now. I had a great idea for a graphic for the back doors of the van. You coming?”
“I think I’ll stay home this time, if that’s alright.” Keefe jerked his head in the direction of the massage table and various lotions. “I’ve still got to put all the creams away.”
Kelvin blinked and pursed his lips. “Orrrr, you could just let the cleaning ladies take care of it?”
Keefe knew that. But he still wasn’t fully accustomed to—or entirely comfortable with—the bougier parts of the Gemstone lifestyle. More importantly, staying home would give him an excuse to be alone for a while. “I know,” he said with a shrug and an encouraging smile. “You go on. Wow him with your awesome idea.”
Kelvin nodded. “Sure, okay.” The smile didn’t fool him; he was used to Keefe’s moods by now, just as Keefe was used to his. “I’ll see you in a bit?”
And before Keefe could respond, Kelvin gave him a light slap on the butt, turned on his heel, and jogged upstairs to his room.
Keefe stood there alone for what felt like ages. He was still standing there when a fully-dressed Kelvin sauntered back downstairs, grabbed the key to the Lambo, and left without so much as a glance into the living room.
“A bit” was a massive understatement. Hours and hours passed without so much as a text from Kelvin. Sure, Keefe could have texted first, but he was stubborn, and Kelvin was the one who went out and left Keefe wondering after him.
Ten o’clock came and went. Then eleven o’clock did too. At 11:30, Keefe finally turned off the TV after finishing yet another season of Fixer Upper, and went upstairs to his own bedroom.
It was mostly empty, aside from a few bits and bobs that had yet to find a more permanent place in that massive house. His toothbrush and razor lived in the primary bathroom, where he and Kelvin each had a sink. His clothes lived in Kelvin’s closet, and they were about the same size, so they often shared. Otherwise, he had few possessions when he moved in with Kelvin, because things had a tendency to go missing when one moved around as much as he had—even relatively worthless, purely sentimental things. Kelvin helped him burn almost everything else in a ritual farewell to Keefe’s past. Gimp suits, butt toys, an obscene water pipe he’d once called The Dong Bong—all gone up in flames. Good riddance.
He hadn’t slept in there in months. The cleaning crew had finally stopped changing the bedding after opening the door and finding the sheets untouched for the sixth month in a row. It felt rude to disturb them much now, so instead of undressing and sliding between the sheets, he curled up on the comforter in his clothes and fell asleep in his eerily vacant room, alone but for a pair of fire dancing poi and a box of old vinyl records.
When Keefe stirred again, dawn was just beginning to peek over the ancient, sprawling Spanish moss trees at the edge of Kelvin’s lot, teasing the bedroom windows with flecks of morning light. He felt a familiar weight draped over him, sensed a warmth in his hand—and smelled something sweet in the air.
Keefe’s eyelids were still heavy from sleep, but he cracked them open enough to see Kelvin’s face an inch or two from his own, and their hands and legs loosely entwined. He was surprised to see Kelvin awake and still in his day clothes. Perhaps he’d never gone to sleep—a prospect that begged questions Keefe wasn’t brave enough to ask.
“I meant to text,” Kelvin murmured. Keefe squeezed his hand, a gentle gesture of forgiveness. “Went to Jesse’s after meeting with that guy and lost track of time watching movies.”
There was the answer to one of the questions Keefe wasn’t brave enough to ask.
“How’d it go, brother?”
“Ha. It was Jesse. You know how he is. Always getting all up inside my butt about this and that. Movies were good, though.”
Keefe had meant Kelvin’s meeting with The Photoshop Guy, but he was rapidly losing the battle against more sleep, so he only nodded. Kelvin, too, was beginning to doze off. And just as Keefe approached the threshold, ready to tip back into darkness, he felt something on his forehead. A warm hand, sweeping his bangs aside. Baby-soft lips, pressed up against his brow. The hand again, sweeping his bangs back into place.
Then another concession, muttered into the crook of Keefe’s neck: “Didn’t mean to keep you waiting. Won’t happen again.”
Keefe squeezed Kelvin’s hand one last time before drifting off. He didn’t believe him, but that didn’t mean Kelvin was lying. Someday, maybe, Kelvin could make that promise and actually keep it.
Until then, Keefe would let Kelvin continue breaking it.