Watch and See

I like to watch.

See here, this is the part where he flips me. When he can't stand to see my face anymore, to feel my breath on his skin while he gets me undressed for it. The picture is grainy. I'll have to adjust the wiring again. Or spring for a new set up. It's worth it. To see this: his face while he fucks me from behind, his cock sliding into my ass so slow, his open mouth and closed eyes, rocking into me. Everything I can't see while it's actually happening.

As I watch him now, the TV the only light in my small studio apartment, blinds closed tight, and he's gently tugging on my hips to pull me back onto his lubed dick, I wonder how I lasted without this vice for the first three months. All those Friday nights, lost to something as insubstantive as memory. And then, two months in, the long weekends where we could pretend it was just as much about the work we could get done. The convenience of it all.

Mulder's favorite positions are standing against a wall or on the ground, but always behind me. I can hear him grunt and sigh, smell him hot and sweet, feel him, certainly, long cock and forceful grace. Sometimes I even taste his sweat when it drips onto my jaw and takes a slide onto my lips. But I can never see him. That's why I set this up. That's why I now get to sit at home, hard again for it, and watch.

And now Mulder throws back his head, close, fuck becoming slightly erratic, clumsy even. I watch his face, slack with bliss, touching myself inside my jeans. I watch his mouth, slick and open, and then because they taught me to read lips so well, I see.

"Alex..."

Not a word he ever said. No breath behind it to produce a sound. It's just his lips.

"Alex..."

He's close to coming, and I watch a tear escape down his sweaty face. Exertion? Elation? And again, my name, not even a dared whisper, "Alex...", and then he buries his face in the back of my neck and orgasms.

I've stopped pulling on my erection. My hand is still against my warm cock. I watch us on the TV screen, Mulder pulling out, me sagging against the wall, him getting dressed, turning away, wiping the sweat. The tears.

Shit.

I hit pause. Mulder's face, that characteristic subtlety of expression, no betrayal of emotion to be had now. But I have all I need to know. I can't go back and not see.

And I realize that though my dick has gone mostly soft, my eyes are moist and my vision blurring. I blink, trying to clear my lashes, the tears caught in them like insects in a cobweb. Something beyond lust is coursing through me now. Like it always has with him. I can't now ignore my own confessions in the safety of my apartment, the safe distance between me and him, cushioning the blow as I've cried his name, come on the neglected Russian, "Ya tebya lyublyu..."

It's late. After midnight. But not too late for Mulder, I know. I've shown up at his place well after two before, and he still lets me in. I grab up my jacket and toss a mint into my mouth. I'm pocketing my keys and turning off the tape before I have conscious knowledge of my true intentions.

Maybe it's not going to be about what either one of us says. Maybe it won't be all that different really. All I know, as I march out my door, is that he's going to face me. If I have to wrestle him to get him there on top of me, face to face and fucking...

He may not show me all the things he does when I watch. But goddamnit, Mulder's going to see.