Love As Meant

 📅 Early September 2018

[ɴᴏɴ-ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ᴀʟʟᴜsɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ɴsғᴡ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ + ᴛᴡ ғᴏʀ ғʟᴇᴇᴛɪɴɢ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴs ᴏғ sᴇx ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅʀᴜɢ ᴜsᴇ]

Loving Anarchy was easy; it had been so constant, for so long. To Chey, to love Anarchy was to continue to breathe, to continue to have a heartbeat, to continue to see when his eyes were open. “At first sight” was far too cliched to say, but if it hadn’t been love then, it had been something else. Anticipation. Captivation. There had been this glow of newfound freedom radiating off of him, this strength in his shoulders despite the blood down his face. Tear tracks but stable breaths. Anthony had been on his way to becoming Anarchy before he’d even known his name didn’t fit—and it felt, to Chey, that he’d fallen in love at the same speed as Anarchy had become himself. Loving him was easy: Chey had been in love for over ten years.
But moving forward within that love...was difficult. And it caught Chey entirely off-guard.

It hadn’t been instantaneous: He and Anarchy started kissing, yeah, and there wasn’t any hesitation anymore in closing the distance between their bodies when they went to bed...but it wasn’t for a week or so before anything really different happened between them. Physically. And Chey wasn’t anticipating any difficulty: Like love, sex was easy—or he thought so. It was something he was good at, experienced with, maybe knew a little too well—but hey! He’d coped, hadn’t he? Owned it, even: He’d chosen his employment, more or less, after getting out of foster care! And he’d had flings! Sure, they were people he’d met at raves and maybe everyone had been a little chemically enhanced, but it had been fun! He could have fun with it. Could use it as a tool, too. 
...Admittedly, it had gotten hard sometimes. Crying into Reggie’s shirt on the couch in 2016, desperate to not be an object, begging the universe: “I don’t want to have to strip anymore!” But he’d gotten past it.
And yeah, okay, when hustling for room and board, it always eventually got to be too much to only be housed so long as he was doll-like and silent or some effeminate fantasy. But in the end the act itself was just sex, and it would be different with Anarchy anyway. 
That difference turned out to be what caught him off-guard.

The bedroom was dark and familiar a little over a week past their first kiss, the start of them putting a label to their relationship, and Anarchy’s voice was nearly as low as his hands when he breathed an unfamiliar question in the same tone he’d been trailing compliments with:
“Are you okay with this?”
It took a few moments to jam up Chey’s neurocircuitry.
“Yes, of course,” Chey replied after a lurched pause, and it was true—but still he felt confused by the presence of another option. 
“Okay, good. Just don’t want you thinking that...it’s all for this,” Anarchy said, his deep voice a comforting rumble emanating from his chest.
“I couldn’t have that low an opinion of you if I tried,” Chey said, relaxing somewhat. Then Anarchy dropped a bigger bomb:
“Mm. Good to hear. How do you want this to go, then?” he asked, his tone exactly the same as before, apparently unaware that he was being entirely nonsensical, “What do you like?”
“Whatever you like, baby,” Chey replied easily, smiling. It was almost funny.Anarchy smiled too, but pulled back slightly to make proper eye contact.
“That’s not an answer, Chey. Like, what if you hated getting your hair pulled and I wanted to pull your hair?” Anarchy said, running fingers through Chey’s hair almost playfully, his eyes glinting like he could laugh.
“Then I’d like getting my hair pulled.”
The smile faded from Anarchy’s face. 
“...No, you wouldn’t.” He sat back and looked troubled, the hand that had ventured to trace Chey’s hipbone returning to rest at his waist instead.
“It’s about you, though, ‘Key,” Chey explained, puzzled but still smiling as he sat up, trying to help Anarchy ‘get it:’ “I just want you. If you want to pull my hair or, I don’t know, whatever, then I—”
“It’s not just about me, though, Chey. You’re here too. You want me, you’ve got me. But what do you want me to do? What is it that you like?”
Chey found himself rendered uncharacteristically silent. He racked his brains.
“Making you happy,” he eventually said, knowing it wasn’t the right answer. “...I don’t know.”
“That’s allowed,” Anarchy replied, rather gently. “What do you not like, then?” He ran his hand through Chey’s hair again. His fingertips brushed Chey’s spine.

“...I do like that,” Chey said tentatively, “I like you touching my hair.” He thought for a few moments. “...I don’t want it pulled.”
“Okay. Not gonna pull it. What else?” Anarchy prompted. His hands were broad and warm.
“I like….feeling safe,” Chey said, “I don’t want hands around my neck, I don’t wanna be choked or slapped. I don’t like pain or restraints or being degraded. I hate slurs. I want you to call me my name.” He felt like he was talking too much. He couldn’t stop. Anarchy pulled him closer anyway. “I like connection; I want to talk. And joke! I like banter and having fun. I don’t want to be told to shut up. I don’t want a hand over my mouth. I want us on equal ground. I want you to kiss me. I want...” he hesitated. “...I want it to be like you love me.”
“I won't have to try too hard, then. I already do,” Anarchy said, and Chey let himself melt into the kiss that followed those words.

“I love you too,” Chey finally managed to murmur against Anarchy’s lips, “and I trust you, I swear I trust you, ‘Key, with everything I’ve got. But just for this I need you to promise you mean it. Please just keep kissing me. Please…” He knew he sounded too nervous, too close to desperate, but Anarchy didn’t seem put off.
“I mean it,” Anarchy whispered huskily, “Of course I mean it. I’m not saying it just for tonight. For this, like, so I can touch you. I’m saying it because it’s true. I’m saying it because I love you. And of course I’ll keep kissing you.” His lips returned to Chey’s, as promised; his word just as strong and steady as his arms, his chest, his heartbeat. Chey didn’t have to try too hard to trust in him: He already did.

Later, tangled together in the sheets, still working their ways back from breathlessness, Chey found Anarchy’s hand cupping his cheek again.
“I’m so in love with you,” Anarchy said softly. “Not because of this, but—You feel so right. Everything about you. Everything about being with you.” He pressed a tender kiss to Chey’s lips. “…I just love you. Again. Always.”
Chey felt aglow; like the golden light he could sense warming his heart would shine out from the eclipse of his sternum at any moment and illuminate the room.
“I love you too,” he said, and it felt like he’d never be able to say it enough either; he immediately wanted to repeat the words. (Again, always). “I’m in love with you, too. I have been for so long.” His lips were still close enough to Anarchy’s for them to just barely brush; a subatomic amount of space keeping them from kissing. Anarchy let it close.

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting,” he murmured into Chey’s mouth, and they were so close; their breaths were one and the same, their bodies still intertwined, hearts beating together and the words were Chey’s, too. I’m sorry I kept you waiting.
For a few moments they stayed pressed together, as one, those words and all their love thickening the air around them. Finally Anarchy drew back again, just slightly. His hand still cupped Chey’s cheek.

 “...I said I wasn’t ready to come out before, and I’m still not about to tweet anything,” he said quietly, “but...I can’t stand not telling people about us. Not when I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. Is that okay? …I want to at least tell Sethfire.”
Chey could hear the lingering anxiety in Anarchy’s voice and his heart swelled over the step his boyfriend spoke of taking.
“Tell anyone you want, ‘Key,” Chey murmured warmly. “I’m proud to be with you. I’m grateful to be with you. There’s nothing about this that I’d feel like hiding. Let the world know; I’ll be right beside you.”