It’s hard to reconcile: the way Dom that’s touching his face so gently, looking at him like that; with knowing that Dom had played some small part in Teddy looking the way he’d looked earlier tonight, when Colin had took his hand in both of his and felt worried and guilty, a way that he’s not used to feeling often. Not about anyone else. But that feels far away, now, easy to ignore in favor of being here, of feeling this. Maybe he should feel guilty, maybe he’s making a mistake—but he’s selfish, he already knew that, and he can’t bring himself not to take this. Not when Dom’s offering. Not when Dom wants him. He’s never been built for having principles: he always bends, he always folds. He’s too hungry—he can’t deny himself something he wants, even if he should.
Dom’s talking, but Colin doesn’t care: this night has been shit, this week has been shit, he’s been feeling like shit since the semester started and trying to hide it—he’s going to grab onto something good when it’s in front of him, use it to chase everything else away, beat it back. It’s simple, and it’s always worked for him before: being close to someone, being seen, being wanted, has always made him feel settled in his own skin. Made him feel a little bit more real, like he doesn’t really exist when he doesn’t have someone looking at himlike this, like he’s the best thing they’ve seen.
He remembers that about Dominic, how focused he was, how attentive. It’s hard not to want that again.
Dom’s leaning in, so close that Colin can hardly keep his eyes focused on him without them crossing, but he’s still hesitating, and Colin lets the icepack slip from his grasp and fall wherever it lands in favor of grabbing onto Dom with that hand as well, fisting tight in the fabric of his shirt over his ribs, like he could keep him from going anywhere that way. He doesn’t think they could kiss very well without blood between them, torn skin catching on torn skin, and maybe that makes things more complicated, but it’s not enough to make him want to stop.
So it’s barely a kiss, just a brush of lips off-center against Dom’s mouth, as far away from where a fist met his face as he can. He’s careful. It doesn’t hurt, except for the part where it makes him want more. “You’d hurt me more if you did nothing.”
The ice pack is cold, close enough to his thigh to almost startle him. His breath caught, and his hand automatically moved to push it away from him. It was a stark opposite to the heat between the two of them, building up higher and higher. For once, Dominic can’t focus, can’t make his memory rewind far enough back to compare this moment to the last time.
Was Colin’s voice that heavy, that warm?
Was he this breathless the last time?
And the ultimate kicker, did he want it this much the last time?
“Colin,” he murmured, swallowing, the brush of their lips setting his heart off on a race like it hadn’t been marathoning already. He doesn’t want to think about the game. He doesn’t want to think about the last guy he’d brought back to their dorm, to try and make Colin jealous of all things. He doesn’t want to think about Colin not calling. He doesn’t want to think about the other morning, with Colin so close and still so far. He doesn’t want to think about how much he still thinks about Colin, without his permission. He doesn’t want to think of the fact that he’s been holding a candle for Colin, quietly burning and refusing to go out once they’d moved in together.
He shouldn’t be doing this.
“Colin-” and there’s a note in Dom’s voice that could be so many things, desperation or despair, heartbreak or need. So he doesn’t talk. He can’t talk. Because if he talks, he’ll wake up, and they’ll go right back to dancing around each other and he’ll never get to have this again. So instead, Dom shifts his head, pressing careful kisses to the side of Colin’s mouth that isn’t hurt, his hands sliding from where they’d been framing his face and finding a home at his ribs, at his hips, then carefully under his shirt. Dominic’s head tilted, his lips finding a home against Colin’s jaw, his throat, while his hands shifted higher. Every move he makes is too careful, too soft for the fire burning in his chest.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he repeated, head lifting so he can brush another kiss against Colin’s lips. “What do you want, Colin? What do you need?” Kisses, soft and sweet, lining up against Colin’s jaw as his thumb swiped across one of the backliner’s nipples. “You’ve got to direct me here. I don’t want to make you feel worse in the morning than that shiner already is.” He pulled back, and his eyes were heavy-lidded, lips parted around a shaky breath.
