Sleepless in New Orleans

This is my story and was also posted elsewhere.

*****

"Do you want to come up for the night?"

That was an odd question, one that made Trent raise an eyebrow. It was almost midnight in the New Orleans summer, and in the passenger seat of his car sat a visibly tired Atticus. They had finally decided to call it quits (or rather, Atticus was tired enough to want to go back to his apartment and Trent didn't want to be alone in the studio), only for Atticus' car to decide that it didn't want to work. Trent, less out of the kindness in his heart and more not wanting to seem like an asshole, offered to drive him home. It was going to be simple - just drop off Atticus, and then go back to his place for another night of...

(Well, not sleeping, that was sure. He hadn't been sleeping much for the last few days. Or weeks. Which was totally fine, he was still able to function in daily life. Besides, less sleep meant more time to work, right?)

But any simplicity in his plan was out the window when Atticus asked him that question. "Why?" He asked back, not even trying to hide his confusion.

An alarmed look crept over Atticus' face, like he hadn't thought his question through before he said it. "Sleep, I suppose? You seem tired, and I know you still have a long way to drive till you get home."

"I'm not going back home," Said Trent firmly. "I'm gonna go back to the studio and work some more."

"This late?" Atticus asked, tilting his head slightly. "You need to sleep, Trent, I know you're tired. I can set you up on the couch for the night."

"Trust me, I'm good. I can drive." God, it wasn't like he had been drinking (he'd been making an actual effort since he got back from rehab, thank you very much). He was good to drive, goddamn it, and Atticus should know that.

Atticus gave him a concerned frown. "Are you sure?" When Trent nodded, he silently opened the passenger door. "Well...please get work over with soon," He said as he unbuckled himself and exited the car. "Goodnight, Trent."

"'Night."

As he watched Atticus walk to the front door of the old, French Quarter-style apartment, Trent went still. It was bugging him even as it happened: why? Why didn't he just drive off for the studio? Maybe it was because he was exhausted and didn't know what he was doing, maybe he was just making sure that his friend - and he did think of Atticus as a friend believe it or not - made it to his front door safely at this hour...

(Maybe the idea of going back to the studio alone, with no one to talk to this late into the night wasn't as appealing as he thought...and what was waiting for him at home anyway?)

Sighing, Trent turned off the car and got out, breaking into a run. "Hey, wait-"

Atticus, who was almost to the front steps of the apartment building, turned to face him with an uncharacteristic surprise. When Trent caught up, he sheepishly asked, "Is your couch comfortable?"

Atticus smiled softly in the glow of a nearby streetlamp.

--

As Atticus opened the door to his apartment, Trent realized that he had no idea what to expect from his friend's living space as he walked inside. One thing was certain: he wasn't expecting things to be so barebones. A gray couch (practically brand new), a bland coffee table and a small TV in the living room; a cramped table and two sand-colored chairs in the kitchen. The only parts that didn't surprise Trent were the keyboard, laptop, and headphones over in the far side of the living room, well-worn from use. On the far side of the living room were two doors, which he assumed were for a bedroom and a bathroom.

"Make yourself at home," Said Atticus softly. He walked past Trent and headed towards his bedroom, nervously glancing at the surroundings as he walked.

With nothing else to do, Trent sat himself on the couch and (after finding the remote) proceeded to kill some brain cells. When Atticus returned with a thin fleece blanket and a pillow, Trent had settled on a late-night airing of a cheesy '50s sci-fi flick.

"Here," Said Atticus, setting the bedding next to Trent. "Sorry it's not much."

"Don't worry about it, I've slept in worse places," Said Trent.

Atticus cocked an eyebrow. "Do I want to know what that means?"

Trent shook his head and grabbed the pillow next to him. "It would take all night to explain it, and I think sleep would be a better use of our time."

"Alright," Said Atticus, nodding. "I'll go brush my teeth and then get to bed. Do you need anything else? I can get you some water. Not much else, I'm afraid." He sheepishly scratched the back of his head. "Haven't really been able to go grocery shopping."

"No, I'm fine," Said Trent quickly.

After Atticus walked to the bathroom and shut the door, Trent stared down at the couch. He frowned - just sitting on it was uncomfortable already, and hadn't been even ten minutes since he sat his ass down on it. Whatever, he could do this. He had actually slept in worse places, and a slightly crummy couch was nothing compared to that. Put the TV on a volume just low enough, and perhaps that would lull him to sleep.

He stood up and began making his 'bed'. There were still a few hours left in the night, he had to get to sleep sometime, right?

--

The wall clock above the TV read 'three o'clock', and Trent wanted to punch the shit out of something. All this time, this late into the night, and still he hadn't slept a wink. The cheesy flick he had been watching had turned into endless infomercials, and every other channel he surfed only offered more of the same. Sure, he could just turn the TV off, but then he'd be alone with his thoughts - something he wasn't too keen on even on the best of nights.

Atticus' bedroom door hadn't opened an inch since he went in there all those hours ago. An idea played in Trent's head, a callback to sleepovers spent decades before where he'd wake up his friends to talk to or play with during sleepless nights...but what was barely tolerable as a child would be outright assholish as an adult, and he knew that.

Trent closed his eyes and rubbed the lids. The thought racked through his brain over and over again like a bee inside a jar, 'I just want to go to sleep, I just want to go to sleep, I just fucking want to go to sleep..."

Abruptly, another idea occurred to him, one that wouldn't require waking anyone up and being annoying: he could just leave the apartment. He could go back to the studio and get some work down until he had tired himself out. There was no reason he had to stay there and sit in the darkness while his eyes glazed over from all the infomercials for kitchen products he didn't need. Yeah, he would still be alone, but maybe if he'd stop whining it wouldn't be that bad. And with Atticus fast asleep, all he needed to do was slip away quietly and there would be no fuss about his premature leave.

His mind made up, Trent got up from the couch - and then promptly stubbed his big toe into the coffee table.

He wasn't surprised that his exclamation of "FUCK!" drew a dazed, t-shirt and sweatpants-clad Atticus from out of his room - but it didn't lessen his embarrassment a bit.

With his eyes half-opened, Atticus flipped on the light switch next to him and muttered a "Wha..."

Trent collapsed onto the couch and propped his foot onto his other knee as the pain faded. "Shit, sorry man. I, uh, didn't mean to wake you like that." He looked again at Atticus, and felt a pang of guilt at how tired he clearly was.

Atticus slowly blinked a few times, then stumbled over to Trent. "It's 'lright. I'm a light sleeper anyway." He blinked again. "Erm, what are you doing up so late?"

"Nothing, just-" Trent frowned, then let out a groan. "I can't sleep, I guess."

Looking from his friend to his couch, Atticus plainly asked, "Sorry, I should have known the couch wasn't terribly comfortable."

"No, it isn't that," Said Trent. He shook his head. "I haven't slept much lately at all. I think last night I slept...two hours? The night before that...two hours and a half hours, maybe. And now I can't sleep at all."

"Oh...is there anything I could...?"

"Trust me, I've tried everything." Trent leaned back on the couch and put his hands on the back of his neck.

"Mind if I have a seat?"

Trent shrugged. "It's your couch, don't know why you're asking me." When Atticus had seated himself, Trent suddenly blurted out, "I was gonna leave."

Atticus furrowed his brow. "Why?"

"I thought-" He bit the inside of his cheek slightly. "I thought that since I wasn't sleeping, I was here for no reason and just filling up space. And maybe if I- if I went back to the studio, then maybe I could at least be doing something."

"You're going to work yourself to death one of these days, you know," Said Atticus chidingly. "You should let yourself relax."

"Maybe..."

"No really, you should." He picked up the TV remote. "Why don't we watch something?"

"If you want to watch endless infomercials for exercise equipment, be my guest," Said Trent.

They sat silently, the light of the TV reflecting off their faces. He wasn't getting any sleepier, and the TV wasn't getting any more interesting, but somehow...somehow Atticus being there with him made it a little more bearable, just like the seemingly endless nights at the studio. It was, goddamn it, a nice change of pace to know that there was someone at least showing concern for Trent when he had such a hard time caring for himself.

Which was why, despite the fear of rejection buzzing loudly in his brain, Trent found himself putting his hand on Atticus' hand. For a brief few seconds, as Atticus looked up from both their hands to the other's face with an obviously puzzled look, Trent's blood went cold.

'I should have known,' He thought bitterly. 'What the fuck was I thinking?' Surely Atticus was ready to throw him out at any second for this, and then he would never speak to each other again...

Atticus took his hand away, but not in anger. His movements became shy, his muscles stiff. "Er, I don't know if this would be alright, but-"

"Um, yeah?" Trent said. The dread in his voice was barely hidden.

"I just-" Clumsily, Atticus stretched his arm across Trent's shoulder in a juvenile, cliche way. Before Trent could say anything else, Atticus abruptly admitted, "I'm not sure what I'm doing, but is this...okay?"

"Huh? Yeah it is," Said Trent, who felt very strange at what just happened. He tried to ease his back muscles, but they were refusing to cooperate.

"Are you alright?" Atticus asked, interrupting Trent's thoughts. Instead of answering, Trent grabbed Atticus' other hand in a panic and squeezed it tightly. Atticus, not entirely sure what else to do, squeezed back.

"I'm fine," Trent replied, voice cracking a little. "I'm just-" He swallowed dryly - there were things he wanted to tell him. But it felt like something was holding him back from saying anything more.

So he did the only thing he felt he could do: he craned his neck to look at Atticus directly, their eyes meeting. Time itself seemed to slow to a crawl. His pulse was going crazy in his eardrums.

Finally, Trent leaned in and kissed him.

It was a simplistic kiss - just two sets of lips gently pushed against each other, nothing out of a Hollywood movie or some other bullshit...but at the same time it didn't feel simple. Trent's stomach was quickly filling up with furious butterflies that were threatening to burst out at any second. The skin on Atticus' arms broke into goosebumps as the kiss began to linger for just a little too long, until he abruptly broke away. In the TV's light, Trent saw him breathing in and out rapidly. They quickly went back into silence, Atticus' arm still over Trent's shoulder (even stiffer than before), neither daring to look at the other.

"Sorry."

Trent raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

Atticus shrugged. "The kiss, I mean." He paused, pursing his lips. "I haven't really, you know...and thinking about it doesn't count."

He didn't need to finish the sentence for Trent to figure out that what he was meaning to say was "Kissing other men". Trent, wanting to be at least a little supportive, said, "If you don't want to do this, we don't have to."

('Whatever 'this' even is,' He thought to himself)

Atticus shook his head. "No - I do want to do this, really." He added quietly, "I'm...sorry it wasn't very good."

"I dunno, it felt, you know, nice."

"Really?" Asked Atticus with some amount of doubt in his tone.

To answer, Trent smiled at him and gently placed his hand on his thigh. Atticus, apparently feeling somewhat bolder than before, held him closer to his chest almost protectively. Trent felt fingers slowly and carefully brush through his hair, and the butterflies in his stomach only became rowdier. Through all this, everything felt unreal to him - like he had actually fallen asleep long ago, and that he was dreaming all of this.

If it was a dream, he didn't want to wake up.

"I mean, if you want..." Trent said, a devious idea forming in his head. "You could try kissing me again. Y'know, just to make sure you're as bad of a kisser as you think you are."

Atticus' head perked up at that. Trent turned in his embrace so that they face each other and kissed him again, a bit harder than the first one. His waist became enveloped in Att's arms as they kissed once more, Trent managing to slip in a bit of tongue - much to Atticus' initial surprise, but nonetheless opened himself further. While his tongue continued exploring Att's mouth, Trent's fingers wandered over to the other's back, probing underneath his t-shirt and dragging against skin that was breaking into a sweat.

Trent broke away from the kiss and his eyes fell from Atticus' face to his sweatpants - or rather the waistband. Carefully, he placed both hands on the other's waist, then looked back up to his face. Beads were rolling down his brow, and Trent caught a gleam of anticipation in his eyes. However, Atticus took Trent's hands and lifted them away.

Trent hung his head in embarrassment. "I was too ahead of myself, wasn't I?"

"No, no," Said Atticus with a shake of his head. "I just- there's something I, well..."

"Yeah?" Trent said with a sudden grin, fascinated with Atticus' growing flusteredness, his avoiding eyes, his fidgeting fingers.

"Um-" He swallowed dryly, then took a shaky breath. "I want to do something for you," He said, slightly more composed than before. Not saying anything more, he took Trent's hand and led him off the couch and, to Trent's surprise, the bedroom. Like the rest of the apartment, when Atticus turned on the light it was barebones aside from the bed itself, a dresser on the opposite wall, and a set of nightstands on opposite sides of the bed.

He put his hands on Trent's chest, signaling him to lie back on the mattress. When he did so, he watched as Atticus awkwardly turned his attention to Trent's jeans and unbuttoned them slowly. Finished with that, he started to drag both the jeans and boxers underneath down by the waistbands - all while Trent's pulse raced faster and faster. When his shirt had been lifted over his head he sat on the mattress totally nude, and Atticus dropped the discarded bundle of denim and cotton to the floor next to them.

They locked eyes again, while Atticus heaved Trent's thighs onto his shoulders - and then paused. "I've never really done this before. Thought, erm, thought I should let you know."

Trent, becoming more tense with anticipation, forced himself to shrug casually. "Maybe avoid using your teeth?"

"Oh, I knew that," Atticus replied with a slight snicker before turning serious again. His calloused fingers traced the softness of Trent's inner thighs with utmost carefulness as he explored every inch he could. Trent leaned his head back onto the couch's armrest and tried to lose himself in Atticus' hands as they made circles in his skin - and the longer he did so, the more Trent felt himself relax and his body getting warmer. He closed his eyes, only for them to shoot open when he felt soft breathing on his naked, twitching groin.

He looked down to see Atticus stopping just inches from his cock's tip, staring straight at it.

"Hey, something wrong?" He asked.

Atticus furrowed his brow, but didn't answer.

"You don't have to do this if you don't want to."

"I do want to do this, really," Said Atticus quietly, sincerely. "I just hope that, you know..." He took another look into Trent's eyes, then bent his head down and loosely held his hand around the base of Trent's cock and put his mouth to the tip; Trent gasped. Atticus swirled his tongue around the tip slowly clockwise, then counter-clockwise.

Trent exhaled hard, then reached down with both hands to Atticus' head at his crotch. "That's good..." He moaned without a second thought, running his fingers through Atticus' scalp. "Keep it going just like that..."

Atticus responded in kind, taking Trent's cock further in his mouth. Trent squirmed and let out a less than masculine squeak, and if he wasn't so focused on what Atticus was doing to him just then he would be half-way dying of embarrassment. His thighs, still cradled, were shivering from Atticus' warm fingertips' slow caresses.

"You're really good at this..." Trent said, followed by another moan.

He forced down a disappointed groan when Atticus suddenly pulled away. "What?"

Atticus looked back up at him. "Nothing." He shook his head. "There is something, but I'm not sure if you would be will-"

"Att," Trent said breathily. "I just let you suck my dick. I think I'm willing to go along with whatever you have in mind."

Brow furrowed, Atticus removed Trent's thighs from his shoulders. "Alright. I'll be right back, I need to grab- something."

Nodding, Trent watched him leave the room. He didn't have to wait long, as Atticus returned quickly with a plastic tub of vaseline in his hands. Trent breathed a sigh of relief - for all of Atticus' claims of being inexperienced in this sort of thing, he was at least smart enough to have that in mind (and Trent had witnessed first hand when people weren't smart enough to think that).

Atticus crawled back onto the bed and fumbled with his sweatpants, looking back and forth from them to the now sitting Trent. Gently, Trent put his own hands on the waistband and pulled them down himself, followed by removing his shirt.

"Um, thanks," Said Atticus meekly.

Trent gazed down. "Thank me later..." His fingers trailed down Atticus' stomach, to his cock, and started stroking it. It twitched, and Atticus' knees began to go weak. Trent continued stroking back and forth, smirking at Atticus' hitched moans. "You like that?"

Sweat beamed down Atticus' forehead as his cock gradually hardened. "Uh-huh..." Boldly he put his hands around Trent's ass, breaking the latter's hold on him and bringing him closer. Sweat rolled down his forehead, but he said carefully, "I want to do this for you."

Their eyes met, and Trent nodded. "Want me to lie down?"

"If you don't mind."

Trent obeyed, and rested himself onto the mattress, knees down and his arms propping his upper body up. Atticus opened the vaseline, scooped it into his hands, then slowly applied it to his cock. When he finished, he brushed his still-thoroughly coated fingers against Trent's opening; the latter squirmed at the touch, and again when Atticus slowly spread the vaseline in and around the hole. Trent sighed; whatever tension was remaining in his muscles subsided, replaced with even more anticipation than before.

Atticus placed his hands on Trent's hips (which Trent found he actually kind of liked), then carefully as humanly possible began to enter him from behind. Trent closed his eyes tight and inhaled and exhaled slowly; Atticus couldn't have been more than average sized if he had to be honest, but he realized just then that he himself had fallen ever so slightly out of "practice" in recent times.