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@dr-bottomless-pit-blog
Stuffing the pizza in his mouth, he looked at the other person left in the room and tilted his head. “Did you want some?” was his muffled question, mostly incoherent through the mouthful of cheesy goodness Michael had been devouring at a nearly alarming rate.
Hands to Myself || Open
cartographer-linguist-plumber
Milo closed his eyes for a moment, willing the flush he felt burning across his face to calm. It’s a lot safer when I’m not being distracted, He thought, but didn’t bother to comment. It seemed to be a game Michael had discovered–how easily it was to make Milo flustered. And for a beginner, he was already shaping up to be an expert at it.
For all the deep breathing and willing away the flush, he found it creeping right back as Michael complimented him yet again. Whether he was serious or just playing the game, Milo couldn’t tell. Of course, You’d have to practically hit him over the head with a two-by-four for him to realize anything when it came to human interaction.
“I uh, well… my folks and my grandfather all worked on finding lost civilizations.” He began, slowly, carefully planning his words so as not to seem well, crazy. “And my grandfather passed before he could ever finish his work. I had, uh, planned to pick up where he’d left off. But, y’know, funding’s too short to throw away on rumors of rumors of things.” His shoulders drew upwards in a shrug, resolutely looking at the bag of chips in his hand, and ignoring the flash of skin he could see from his peripheral. No, sir. Not going to pay that any mind.
There was no game, or at least, not the kind that Milo thought he was playing. Too bad there wasn’t a two-by-four laying around for Michael to use on Milo at that moment. He was flirting, honest-to-God, straight up hitting on Milo. That ‘accidental’ flash of skin was anything but. Damn. Maybe the kid was actually straight. Shrugging, Michael resumed sipping at his juice.
“Lost civilizations? Sounds like a fun time.” Honestly, Michael wasn’t sure whether or not that was fun, he was just guessing. Maybe it was better to let the kid ramble since he really didn’t know what to talk about anymore.
Why wouldn’t he pay it any mind? It practically had Michael pouting when he saw Milo ignore that bit of flesh. He had a devious thought in his head. The economics professor picked up the juice box with just a bit too much force, sending the purple liquid all over the front of his light grey sweater. “Dammit!” he exclaimed as he jumped up, dropping the practically empty juice box. Sighing, Michael pulled the edge of the sweater up and over his head, dabbing at his dampened skin with a dry part of the sweater before carrying it to the sink to rinse it with cold water. “Now I remember why I stopped drinking grape juice,” he said with a grin over his shoulder at Milo.
Hands to Myself || Open
cartographer-linguist-plumber
Milo threw up his hands in frustration at their circular argument, the bag of cheesy snacks dropping to his lap. They were getting nowhere. Fishing out a single cracker, he tossed it in the air, leaning back to catch it in his mouth. He could feel the front two legs of his seat lift slightly with the shift in his weight, but he brought them back to the floor in a practiced motion. Readying another chip, he caught it just in time to hear a comment that certainly sounded more than friendly. He choked on the Cheez-It, coughing until he was able to swallow it.
“Thanks.” He coughed, a hand to his chest. “’ppreciate it.”
It took a moment for his breath to return, but once it had, he resumed his meager lunch in a safer fashion. He nodded as Michael talked about how he’d come to study economics. “Law school? Guess your dad’s a lawyer, huh?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, stretching. “I, uh… Well, my dad ‘nd my mom were archaeologists… and my grandfather. So it’s sort of a, uh, well… a family thing. I-I’m not actually an anthropologist. I mean, I’ve got a doctorate in Linguistic Theory and one in Dead Languages. I guess I’ve got a Bachelor’s in Anthropology, but it was sort of a get-it-along-the-way thing. So I guess I am. B-but this isn’t what I’d planned on doing… not exactly.” He snapped his mouth shut, mortified at how he’d rambled on again for what should have been a simple answer. It wasn’t any wonder why is one and only romantic attachment had lasted a mere twenty-two days.
The gesture made Michael laugh but he didn’t continue the argument, figuring Milo’s frustration meant that he had won. Michael watched Milo’s interesting way of eating, curious how many times he’d fallen or choked when he did it wrong. Then Milo was choking and Michael got up to roughly pat Milo on the back. “That’s dangerous you know. You started turning pretty colors. It was pretty but you look better your natural color. Be careful.”
Nodding, Michael settled back into his seat with a curious smile. It seemed to be fairly easy to fluster Milo. And for some reason, Michael enjoyed that.
“Judge actually. But he used to be a lawyer.” Shrugging, Michael sipped at the juice box, listening to Milo’s story. “You’re cute when you ramble. Try not to do that around your students or you really will never get rid of them.” The economics professor stretched his arms over his head, ignoring the way the hem of his sweater rose to reveal the muscled abdomen beneath. “So what was your plan originally?” he asked as he sat up properly, lowering his arms before pulling his sleeves up. Perhaps long sleeves had been a bad idea, but it had been freezing that morning.
Hands to Myself || Open
Milo rolled his eyes, picking at his crackers. He would have eaten a more healthy lunch if someone hadn’t beat him to it. “If you have food in your office, then why are you eating mine?” Milo grumbled under his breath. He wasn’t the most confrontational of people, but he still was angry about the debacle. Dark eyebrows rose in surprise. “Er, yeah. Most of my classes are female. It’s a bit, well…” He shrugged. He knew that statistically, the number of women studying anthropology was rising. it just seemed a little weighted in his classes. “I’ll check it out. Thanks… Michael.”
He felt his cheeks color a little at the thought of girls interrupting Oakley during his workout time. Or maybe just Oakley working out. Milo didn’t know. He scrubbed at the blush with the sleeve of his sweater, feigning an itch to hide it. Too many years spent in libraries and archives and museums left Milo a little unsure of what to do around attractive people in general. Much less figure out what sort of attractive people he liked best.
He shook his head as the older man setup someone named “Katz” to take the fall for the missing rhubarb crumble. Mischievous one, he was. Meeko. His mind supplied, pulling out a random Alogonquin word from his stint of studying Jamestown as an undergrad. He bit his lip to hide his chuckle at the thought, deciding to keep the nickname to himself. “So…. Economics?”
“That’s the thing. I’m not eating your food. I’m eating my food that you put your name on. And because that food is not here. You’re welcome to raid my fridge. It means I’ll get to see your face more often, feel free.”
Michael laughed, listening to him talk about his female classes. The poor deluded virginal guy had no idea why there were so many females in his classes. The economics professor didn’t have the heart to break it to him so he left him to his clueless self.
The way Milo said his name almost made Michael laugh again. “No problem, Milo. There are other places to hide out from the groupies, but maybe I should let you see how one works first.” Finishing the pizza, Michael got up and put the empty container with its new note back in the fridge.
Mischievous. That was definitely one way to describe Michael. As he returned to the table, he gave the other man a quizzical look, but didn’t question the blush. It wasn’t his business after all. “Yeah, economics. I like numbers and was good at doing taxes and shit for my dad. Anything to avoid law school.” The larger man shrugged and leaned back in his seat, sipping at the juice box. “Anthropology? What made you go into that?”
Ryan Reynolds photographed by Guy Aroch
Hands to Myself || Open
Milo Lunch-naming Thatch
Wearily, Milo crossed the small lounge to the vending machines, fishing out a crumpled one and some change from his back pocket. The machine balked for a minute, before finally accepting the bill. Returning with a small bag of Cheez-Its, Milo dropped into the seat across the table from Michael, drawing his long legs up to sit cross-legged in his seat. He eyed the lid of the container that Michael was digging into with so much gusto, wondering if the man hadn’t heard of King’s infamous temper. Milo had only been at the school for a few days, but even he knew.
He straightened his bow tie a bit self-consciously, chuckling as the other man produced a juice box. “Good to know. I’ve barely had a chance to leave my office. Getting settled in and all. And my students seem to have a lot of difficulty understanding the material. They’ve barely left me time to do anything else, with all the people dropping by my office to ask questions.” He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit of his, unaware that each time he did it, he looked a little more like a mad scientist.
Michael watched Milo curiously as he continued to shovel the dessert into his mouth. “That’s not a very healthy lunch. You should come to my office. I think I have some salami floating around in my mini-fridge.” The economics professor shrugged. He still wasn’t willing to admit he’d taken Milo’s lunch. For some reason, he was determined to claim it as his own, like a child, or an animal.
“And would these be the female students? Because they suddenly decide they’re gonna fail economics unless they come talk to me during my workout time.” Michael laughed as he finished off the dessert and set the empty container aside. “You should find hiding spots to get work done in so they won’t find you. There’s an office on the sixth floor in one of the towers that’s empty. I hide out in there sometimes. They haven’t found me there just yet. Of course if they do, I’ll know who sent them.” It was nice to have admirers and all, but Michael was pretty sure that they hadn’t picked up on his sexuality just yet.
The larger man grinned as he picked up a baggy with pizza in it that had “Katz” on a sticky note stuck to it. Placing the Katz sticky on top of the “King” one, Michael laughed and dug into the pizza. Oh, he knew about King, that’s why he was pinning the deed on Katz.
Hands to Myself || Open
𝕸𝖎𝖑𝖔 𝕿𝖍𝖆𝖙𝖈𝖍
Milo sighed, rubbing under his glasses once more. Twenty-eight years old and people are still stealing my lunch. Looking back to the thieving professor, he sighed again. “So ham and pickled beets is your favorite, too, I guess.” Countless stolen lunches had made Milo unwilling to fuss about it. He’d just feed the vending machine a dollar or two and survive off whatever it spat out. He watched as his sandwich disappeared in a few bites, the other man’s cheeks bulging as he chewed. It reminded Milo of the hamster that his fourth grade class had cared for.
“It’s Milo.” He shrugged, “I teach Anthropology. Do you make a habit out of eating other people’s lunches? I mean, really, it’s an interesting culture, office culture.” He could feel himself rambling, but was helpless to stop. “In how many cultures is it both taboo and a societal norm to steal food from each other?”
“Is that what that is?” The economics professor made a face. “I mean, yeah. Of course. It’s delicious.” It actually was, surprisingly enough. Though there were few foods that Michael didn’t like. Grinning, Michael motioned to one of the tables as he pushed the door to the fridge closed.
“Come on, come sit with me. I’ll share my lunch with you.” Michael chuckled and plopped down in one of the seats at the table, setting the bag and the other lunches he had swiped on the table in front of him. One was a container with “King” scrolled across it and hearts as well as a Batman symbol drawn around the name. “Someone thinks I’m a king, obviously.” He laughed and took the lid off, inhaling the scent of the rhubarb crumble. “Dessert is served.” It was childish, but Michael fished a juice box from his pocket and inserted the straw. “This really is mine. I keep them in my office for when students faint during finals.”
Hands to Myself || Open
cartographer-linguist-plumber
Milo had been, for lack of a better word, buried under piles of charts and photocopies of ancient manuscripts. He’d only a short amount of time to organize his life’s work into a short and–hopefully–convincing presentation. He rubbed a hand across his eyes, shoving his glasses up on his forehead. They settled with a a plop back on his nose a moment later, as he glanced at the time displayed in the corner of his laptop screen. A quarter past three, and well past the time he should have stopped for lunch. Stretching, he ran long fingers through his hair, making it stick up, even messier than before. He shambled down the hall a bit to the professor’s lounge, stopping to lean against the door way as he watched another professor rummaging through the fridge.
It took him a moment to realize that it was his lunch in the man’s hand (after all, how many paper bags labelled “Thatch” were likely to be in the refrigerator?), and his ham sandwich being offered. “Well, yeah…” He began quietly, a little timidly, “I-I mean, it’s my lunch you’re eating!”
The economics professor looked down at the lunch in his hand and back up to the other man before shaking his head. Swallowing the food in his mouth, he pointed at the bag with the sandwich. “No. It’s my lunch. Someone else just wrote their name on it.” To emphasize his point, he took another bite of the sandwich. It was amazing that Michael was as fit as he was considering how much food he consumed. The man ate nearly every thirty minutes to an hour. And while he did work out, he didn’t work out that much.
“Name’s Michael Oakley. I teach economics.” He grinned, swallowing the mouth full of bread and meat. “So do you make it a habit of re-labeling people’s lunches . . .Thatch?” he asked, eyeing the name on the bag.
Hands to Myself || Open
It was a bad habit, one he had yet to kick apparently. And with such a high metabolism, it was no surprise that Michael was always eating. Even with food hoarded in his office and apartment, Dr. Oakley still found himself raiding the fridge in the teacher’s lounge. Sticky fingers and a hungry flat tummy meant no lunch was safe from his impulses. Having such habits as swiping shiny objects and food meant that he was always listening for someone coming in behind him. Hearing footsteps, he slowly turned towards the doorway, cheeks stuffed with food and an innocent look on is face. “Someone re-labeled my lunch,” he explained (lied) through the food filling him mouth. “Want a bite?” Michael asked, holding the half-eaten item in his hand out.
