Instead of answering, Tomas dug into his bag and pulled out his writing journal. Leafing through it, he found the scene he was working on and handed the journal to Cathal. “I have the same problem with this scene,” he explained. Damn his bloody muse, who sure as hell wasn’t going to take the same excuses Tomas had made last time, especially after what he’d just admitted to Cathal. “I umm….” He swallowed, noticing how Cathal seemed to be almost devouring the words he was reading, even though it was a snippet out of context. “I’ve never been kissed by another man,” he finally said.
Cathal looked up at Tomas, his voice soft, wistful. “Neither have I.” His head lowered again quickly, his attention once more taken by the words on the page in front of him. “I really like this,” he said finally, the journal still open on his lap. “They both feel so awkward and yet it’s obvious they have some kind of feelings for each other.” He blushed, pink dusting his pale skin to spread from his cheeks down his neck and throat to disappear into the top of his loose shirt. “At least it reads like that to me.”
“They do,” Tomas said, crossing his legs at the ankle and then uncrossing them again. “I just….” How could he explain this without feeling like a complete idiot? “I don’t want to ruin it by writing something I know nothing about.” God, why had he put it like that? Maybe it wasn’t too late to just ignore this whole conversation and find a large hole to bury himself in.
“I see.” Cathal wiped his palms on his trousers and then turned the page of the journal back and forth, his eyes scanning the words again. “Maybe I could help?” he suggested. “Can you tell me what the story is about so I can get more of an idea of what this kiss should, er… involve?”
“Involve?” Tomas’s voice sounded strained to his own ears. He coughed, clearing his throat before speaking again. “Umm, it’s about a writer who meets someone he thinks might be a muse.”
“I see.” Cathal nodded slowly. “Why does he think that?” He edged closer to Tomas, the book still balanced carefully on his lap.
“He’s drawn to this person he’s not long met.” The explanation sounded somewhat weak now that Tomas had to actually explain it to someone else. “It’s like they have a connection….”
“Like Alan and Roger in your other book?” Cathal frowned. “That doesn’t explain why—” He checked the name. “—Deimos might be a muse though, but then I haven’t read enough.”
Tomas opened his mouth to explain more, how Deimos seemed to appear and disappear out of thin air, how he seemed otherworldly, how Mark kept thinking about him all the time. Cathal placed one hand on Tomas’s knee, his breath warm against Tomas’s face. “Cat? What are you doing?”
“I’m getting into character.” Cathal reached over and brushed Tomas’s hair from his face. “You’re a writer, so you need to be Mark. That leaves me the role of the muse.” His voice was barely a whisper. “This scene is too good for it to be abandoned like the other one.” His eyes dropped to the page and back again. He licked his lips, his fingers tightening on Tomas’s knee. Tomas’s breath hitched.
“Yes, it is.” He swallowed again, reaching out his own hand to caress Cathal’s cheek, echoing Mark’s actions in his book. “I don’t want you to leave,” he whispered, his words following the script, his heart speeding up.
Cathal closed his eyes as he followed Tomas’s cue, slipping into a role that could have been written for him. “I think I’m in love with you,” he murmured.
Their lips brushed together, tentatively, awkwardly. Tomas pulled away, unsure, his breathing growing ragged, Cathal’s skin warm under his fingers, soft but for the slight stubble across his lower cheek, blond facial hair almost invisible. Tomas leaned in again, his lips parting this time in invitation as he pressed their mouths together. Cathal moaned softly, opening his own lips, leaning into it, his fingers threading through Tomas’s hair.
Wet skin, soft and inviting, tasting of coffee and something else Tomas could only describe as uniquely Cathal. It felt right, better than anything Tomas could have imagined. He whimpered, pulling Cathal to him, convincing himself for that moment they weren’t playacting, that this was real, that the man in his arms was someone who loved him.
The need to breathe drove them apart. Cathal’s eyes opened with a start, searching Tomas’s. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“Don’t be.” Tomas traced Cathal’s lips with his fingers, committing the scene to memory, allowing himself a photograph he realized he wanted frozen in his mind forever. “I’m not.”