Driftwood by Harper Fox

serious, significant human interaction—of talking, about something other than the weather, and of being heard. Barely aware of his own actions, he switched the kettle on and turned to start the washing up.
    â€œThomas?”
    He froze. Damn, he should have tried not to let the cutlery clatter. He might have known that Flynn was too polite a guest to leave him to clear up, no matter how much he needed the break. He went through to the living room, wiping soap suds off his hands with a tea towel. Flynn was kneeling between two piles of his uncategorised books, apparently sharing a perusal of them with his wolfhound. “Yes? You okay?”
    â€œFine. But leave the dishes. I’ll do them later.”
    Thomas looked at him. His presence altered the room in ways Thomas could not account for. Always somehow numinous, now lit by a single lamp in the corner, it had even more of a solemn, waiting air about it, as if any moment it would be filled by the song of angels or mermaids. Well, he could hear the sea, a distant, almost subsonic booming in the cliff-caverns far below.
    â€œIt’s okay,” he said. “I’ll just run them through now. It won’t take five minutes.”
    â€œThis is quite a collection,” Flynn commented, as if he hadn’t heard him. He was carefully turning over the pages of a 1960s account of the Kennedy assassination. Fascinating, practically written on the day. Thomas found himself more interested in the movements his hands made. Capable, deft. Incredibly gentle. Thomas wanted, with a violence that shocked him, to feel their touch on his skin. His mouth dried out. “Henry James, Thackeray, DIY,” Flynn continued, glancing over the wildly eclectic mix. “And yet everything else is so organised and…” he gestured to the well-scrubbed flagstone floor, to the room’s other surfaces, giving back the lamplight without a trace of dust, “…so beautifully clean.”
    Thomas swallowed. He never spoke to anyone about his compulsion towards order. Barely acknowledged it to himself. But Flynn wasn’t challenging him. His expression was kind, as if he already understood. “I know. I feel as if I have to.”
    â€œLike the washing up.”
    â€œYes. I feel as if I have to.”
    Flynn uncurled from the floor. Not taking his warm gaze from Thomas, he went to the sofa, sat down and stretched one arm along the back of it. Crossed one ankle over his knee. He smiled at Thomas, a long, slow smile that left no room for doubt. “Leave it,” he said huskily. “Come here.”
    So Thomas came to sit beside Flynn. It was awkward—Flynn had not moved his arm, and the sofa was not large, but he thought he had made a reasonably casual job of it until he realised he was still clutching at the tea towel. The bloody undone dishes tugged and nipped at his mind, and he shivered, trying to push the compulsion away. Normally it would not matter; normally he would not miss much by giving in to it. Tonight, however, a handsome green-eyed man was sitting with him in his sea-washed eyrie—one of the loveliest things Thomas had ever clapped eyes on, now he let himself know it—and to turn away his attention seemed criminal.
    Then where was he supposed to focus it? The sofa was quite small, but still there had been no need for him to settle within six inches of his guest, in flagrant violation of both their sets of personal space. If he looked down, there were Flynn’s lean, powerful thighs, encased in their worn denim. If he looked up—if he tried to meet his eyes—they would be…oh, God, shockingly close, nose to nose, practically, one unthinking inch off a kiss.
    He forgot about the dishes. Flynn said, “Look at me,” and his reflexive obedience closed the gap.
    Another man’s mouth under his own. Thomas sucked in an astonished breath and felt Flynn laugh and choke as it was snatched up from his