His dalliance with his roommate had been a major distraction for him for the first several weeks of their co-habitation, but Pete had finally secured a job. He was working five, and sometimes six days a week as a maintenance millwright at a manufacturing plant. The work was hot, sweaty, cramped, noisy, chaotic, and physically demanding. Often he had to work overtime, and his colleagues were generally repellent people to be around, but the pay was fantastic, and he was well on his way to being in the best shape of his life. He hadn't lost any weight, but within only a few weeks a great deal of his fat had converted to muscle.
Pete usually came home feeling grumpy and exhausted, but oddly satisfied. It had been excruciating at first, but now that he was toning up, he was beginning to find a hard day's work inherently rewarding.
No matter how work was, Pete was always glad to come home. Tonight, he was especially glad. And tonight, he had to hide his gladness. He put on only grumpiness when he came through the door of his and Dean's apartment, and dropped his toolbag with a great noisy clatter. He could hear the stove going in the kitchen.
Good.
He kicked off his work boots and left them next to his tools before strutting into the kitchen. Dean was industriously preparing dinner, and he wore only two things: on his feet, shiny, red, knee-high boots with moderate heels-his Sailor Moon boots-and around his neck, a leather collar with a large metal ring hanging from the front. He looked up at Pete's arrival and smiled. He sashayed over and pressed himself up against Pete's chest.
"Hi, handsome."
Pete studied him soberly, and then gave him a single, hard kiss, hanging tightly to his hair as he did so. "I'm tired, Dean... and I'm hot and thirsty. Make yourself useful and get me a Coke."
"Of course, Petey."
Pete watched as he dropped his head and strode over to the refrigerator. He loved watching the way Dean walked in those boots, the way he unconsciously swung his hips from side to side like a runway model. Dean took a can out of the fridge and filled a large glass halfway with ice. He poured the cola into the glass, and then hurriedly brought it over to Pete.
"There you go, dear. Relax and enjoy." He turned back to the stove, but Pete grabbed him by the ring in his collar and forced him to look him in the eye.
"This is half foam, you jackass!"
Dean tensed up, and his eyes grew wide and moist. "I... I'm sorry, Pete," he said softly. "I fucked up."
Pete pushed the glass into his hand. "Take this and bring it to me in the living room once you've done it right."
"Yes, dear," he breathed.
Pete let Dean go with a little shove and turned to leave the kitchen. "And would it kill you to put a little makeup on?" he yelled out as he settled down heavily on the sofa, causing Dean's three cats to scatter. "It's like you don't even care!"
After a few moments Dean walked in, head down, with a glass in his hand. It was full to the brim with Coke, and hardly a trace of foam. "I'm so sorry," he mumbled, setting the glass on the coffee table in front of Pete.
"What did you say?" Pete barked, grabbing him by the thigh, the smooth span of skin between the top of his red boot and the shapely curve of his ass. "Speak up!"
"I'm sorry, Pete," Dean said in a steadier voice, daring to make eye contact, though his dark bangs were hanging low, obscuring most of one eye. "I wasn't well prepared for you today. It's no one's fault but mine, and I don't blame you for being angry. Once I've brought you your dinner, I'll go fix myself up a little. You deserve to come home to someone pretty and pleasant and ready to serve you."
"Fine," Pete snarled, picking up his glass and sipping it while he propped his feet up on the coffee table. "God knows I don't ask much of you-it shouldn't be so difficult!"
"I know!" Dean replied humbly, dropping his head again. "You're absolutely right. A cold drink, a solid meal, and a pretty face. My handsome, hardworking man deserves these things. I'll try to do better."
"All right, all right-now quit moaning and get back into that kitchen before you ruin dinner too!"
"Yes, dear."
Again Pete watched him walk away. That ass...
He idly watched television and sipped his Coke until Dean entered with a dish for him. He sat down gently at his side and presented his offering.
"What is this slop?" Pete asked, eyeing it skeptically.
"It's... it's a risotto," Dean said in a near-whisper. "Prosciutto, and, um... mushrooms... fresh basil..."
Pete stuck his finger into the saucy rice and licked it, giving a little grimace. "Ugh," he muttered. "You make such freaky shit! Why can't you just make meat and potatoes like a normal person?"
Dean blinked several times, his dark eyes welling up a little behind his glasses. "I... I've got chicken for the next course. You don't like the risotto...?"
Pete grabbed the dish out of his hands. "Don't snivel-I'll choke it down!" He gripped his fork and shovelled the food moodily into his mouth.
Dean watched him for a minute or two, breathing deeply.
"What's your problem?" Pete finally asked, pausing his brisk but dispassionate eating to stare back at his companion.
"I'm sorry," Dean whispered. He reached out a hand and touched his cheek, running his fingers down the length of the beard Pete had been growing out over the past few weeks. "It's just... you're so handsome. Your beard-it's coming in really nicely."
Pete gave a brief nod and continued eating. "Weren't you going to go fix yourself up?"
Dean stood up quickly. "Yes-yes, I'm so sorry, Petey! I'll be back soon, looking so much prettier, and with the rest of your dinner. I hope you'll like it."
"I hope so too, because so far this has been a shit evening!" Pete yelled after him. He let out a long sigh, and began to take his time finishing the risotto. When he'd eaten every last grain, he drew his thumb across the dish to collect up all of the sauce he could, licking it throughly. He finished and set it down on the coffee table just in time for Dean's return.
"Do you like me better, Pete?" he asked softly, hips gently swaying as he strode in his red boots. He held a dinner plate loaded with food, but Pete's attention was on his face. His lips were now a juicy shade of red. He'd taken off his glasses to fully display his artistry, and his semi-Japanese eyes were carefully lined and elegantly exotic. He'd become fairly talented at applying makeup, especially around the eyes, and Pete couldn't help feeling a little disarmed.
"Yes, Dean," he replied hoarsely. "You look good. Come over here."
Dean beamed with pleasure and approached gracefully, clutching the plate with care.
"Turn around," Pete ordered once he was within arm's length.
Dean turned for him. Pete's fingers teased the backs of his knees just above the tops of the boots, and then slid up his thighs, cupping the flawless, round cheeks of his gorgeous ass. Dean let out a tremulous breath. Pete suddenly gave him a sharp smack across the backside, making him yelp, and the dinner plate trembled momentarily, causing the fork and knife to tumble to the floor. Dean gasped. He set the plate down on the coffee table and bent over to retrieve the fallen utensils, his hands groping clumsily as he struggled to locate things without his glasses. Pete paused to enjoy the view, and then seized his wrist before he could stand fully.
"You clumsy little bitch," he hissed. "That knife could have landed on my foot."
Dean's perfectly-painted eyes widened in horror. "I'm so... so sorry, Petey," he breathed. "I... I wasn't expecting..."
Pete cut him off by giving him a firm shake. "Shut it!" he snapped. "Get back into that kitchen and bring me fresh utensils-unless you think I should eat with a fork that's been on the fucking floor with your filthy animals!"
Dean breathed hard. He appeared about to speak for a few moments, and then gave up. As soon as Pete let go of his arm, he clattered back to the kitchen.
"And hurry the hell up before my food gets completely cold!" Pete added.
Dean returned shortly with a new fork and knife, and set them reverently on either side of his plate. "I hope it's to your liking," he whispered. His eyes still looked like they were on the verge of spilling over with tears, and his lower lip and chin twitched intermittently.
Pete poked at the food with his fork. Dean had served him half a roast chicken, separated neatly into its various cuts, alongside an assortment of roasted vegetables, elegantly presented, and buttered corn cut freshly off the cob. He sighed grievously as if completing a chore and began laboriously to eat what he'd been served. Now and then he gave a surreptitious glance toward Dean's cock. It had been gradually, steadily growing over the past ten or fifteen minutes, and was well on its way to horizontal.
"Sit," he said through a mouthful of chicken.
Dean reverently settled next to him on the couch, sitting straight-backed and neatly crossing one leg over the other.
"The fuck is this?" Pete asked, pointing his knife at an orange vegetable arranged flawlessly into a fanned-out array of crescent-shaped slices and drizzled with something black or possibly deep brown.
"Acorn squash," Dean replied softly. "With a balsamic glaze. I made it from scratch this afternoon."
