Thyme (Naughty or Nice) (5 page)

“If you wanted to snuggle, all you had to do was ask, asshole,” Verne said.

Julien couldn’t see the smirk, but he could hear it just fine. Before he could make a snappy comeback, his cell phone rang. The song “Witch Doctor” was muffled, but still audible. Reluctantly, Julien lowered one arm and dug through his coat pocket. Tissues. A condom. A hat he should have been wearing. Ah, his phone!

Verne grabbed the phone from his hand, leaped away, and flipped it open.

“Give my phone back, you bastard!” Julien yelled. Because yelling, “Why the fuck aren’t you still hugging me?” seemed inappropriate in a public park. Especially if this was real, which it couldn’t possibly be… right?

“Hello, Momma Lafayette. I’m good. Yeah. Uh huh.” Verne dodged away from Julien’s grabby hands and then covered the bottom of the phone to say, “It’s your momma. She says we better visit her over Easter break since my family got us for Christmas,” Verne said.

Julien froze in place, as if he were a detailed snowman someone had taken the extra effort to paint. The message was familiar, too, and it killed him. In 2001, his momma had moved to California for a few months to help his Aunt Gabrielle and Uncle Martin after they got in a car accident; it was the first Christmas he’d spent without her. They had never made it to Easter break, because Verne was in basic training at Parris Island by then. He’d joined the Marines as soon as the offices opened following Christmas Day.

“Not this time,” he whispered lowly. If this was real, and he’d gotten a second chance, they would definitely—

“And Nana told your momma, and I quote, ‘Tell the boy not to be an idiot this time.’”

Idiot boy. Those words melted the bonds that held Julien in place, and he sprinted the distance that separated them. Without thinking, he tackled Verne to the ground and snatched the phone away.

“Momma? You there?”

“I’m here, Jules. I wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas and tell you—”

Momma said exactly what Verne had said—not that he doubted him, mind you, but he had to be absolutely sure this was real. “I love you, Momma.”

“I know, Jules. I love you, too.” If Nana’s voice was whiskey, Momma’s was liquid chocolate. Sweet and something he never tired of hearing.

“Tell—will you tell Nana thank you for me? And that I love her?” His throat closed on the words, and he barely forced them past his lips.

It was. This was—he was—Nana had given him a chance to fix everything; he wouldn’t fail. He’d more than learned his lesson the first time around. He was ready to forsake “great” for “priceless,” assuming he didn’t screw it up. No, he
wouldn’t
fuck this up.

“Sure will, Jules. You boys be safe and happy, you hear?”

“Yes, Momma. We hear.” As soon as he agreed, she hung up. He was used to that; Momma hated goodbyes, had ever since his papa died, and he didn’t blame her one bit. She never said the words, because she refused to believe it was the last time they’d talk—as if abstaining would force him to live until the next time she spoke to him.

Closing the phone, he shoved it back in his pocket, slightly dazed. Nana’s words straight from his momma’s mouth. This was real. He felt the grin split his face and wriggled with delight.

“Ungh.”

Julien flushed a deep red as he realized exactly where he was sitting—on Verne’s groin. And he’d been wriggling about like an overexcited puppy. The snow had made Verne’s hair a darker blond, almost light brown. And his cheeks were pink from the cold… or arousal, if the hard thing poking his ass was what he thought it was. And what could it possibly be if not Verne’s cock?

“Um, sorry!” he squeaked before scrambling off Verne. He could feel the snow seeping into his clothes, bringing a chill with it, but his mind was still elated over the fact that he’d given Verne an erection. He hadn’t meant to unintentionally tease Verne, but having proof that he hadn’t been delusional six years ago—
today
, and his mind was still failing to completely process the fact that Nana had sent him
back in time
; he owed her more than he could ever repay—flooded his chest with warmth.

Fear passed through Verne’s eyes. “Jules, I didn’t—I wouldn’t hurt—I’m sorry,” he finally whispered, wet hair falling forward to cover his eyes.

Oh! In all the time he had wondered why Verne never directly approached him—because he knew he wouldn’t have been able to refuse his friend under those circumstances—Julien had never once thought it was because Verne was afraid to scare him. In a way, it made sense. Verne was, and always had been, taller, stronger, and more volatile than he had.

But Julien couldn’t bear the thought that Verne believed, even for a second, that Julien would ever be afraid of him. For him, yes. But never of him. If he’d known only one honest truth in his life, even when he was being an unmitigated asshole, it was this: Verne was safety.

“I know you wouldn’t hurt me,” Julien said, because he had to say it. “There’s no need to apologize, bastard,” he said fondly. Verne shook his head, sending drops of water flying. And, lying there in the snow all wet, his hair curling slightly (it was, thankfully, not the buzz cut that signified the loss of his hopes and dreams), Julien couldn’t help but think that he’d never looked more beautiful—or younger.

The jaded hardness that had been in his eyes for years didn’t exist yet. And the vulnerability that he’d only ever shown to Julien was on display. Julien vowed to protect it this time around.

He reached down and pulled Verne to his feet. “We’re going to get sick if we stay out here. We’re soaked. No thanks to you, bastard.” He grinned at his friend. “Let’s head back to your folks’ place.”

“Jules….”

Julien bumped his shoulder against Verne’s and then tangled their fingers together as best he could with their bulky snow gloves on. “Later tonight, bastard, when my balls aren’t going to fall off. We’ll talk then.”
For however long it takes to make you mine. And you will be mine, just as I’ll be yours
, he thought.

“Promise?”

The word brushed against Julien’s cheek like winter’s kiss, because they both knew this was one of three things you only said if you really meant it. “Yeah, bastard, I promise.”

Verne chuckled and squeezed his hand. “I’ll hold you to that, asshole.”

Julien was counting on it.

The trek back to Momma and Papa Verne’s house took almost thirty-five minutes, which was ridiculous considering it was less than a mile from the park. Then again, it was Christmas Eve, and people were racing about doing last-minute shopping, caroling, and so forth. It didn’t help that they engaged in two snowball wars—both of which Julien won, thank you very much. He wasn’t as powerful as Verne, but his aim was sniper-esque.

He flinched at the thought, because it was too reminiscent of the future, of Verne in the Marines, in that hospital bed… legless and dying.

Verne pushed open the front door to the two-story house, sending the ribbons on the wreath they had chosen fluttering. “We’re back!”

“You boys better not drip water all over my floors!” Momma Verne hollered. “Leave your coats and boots and everything out there and then go take showers. You’ll be lucky if you don’t catch pneumonia and die!”

Julien, who’d been untying his left boot, almost tripped and fell. He knew she was joking, but he never wanted to hear that word pass her lips ever again. Luckily, Verne caught him.

“You all right?”

“Huh?” Julien blinked up at him. “Oh, yeah, I’m fine.”

“Be more careful,” Verne chided. “I don’t want you to break anything before tonight,” he added with a playful leer.

Julien flushed and yanked the boot off to join its fellow. “Right.” He took his coat off and hung it on the rack, piling his scarf and gloves in the pockets. “I’m going to—” He gestured to the ceiling and then hurried from the entryway on socked feet. At least they were mostly dry.

His luggage was in the bedroom right next to Verne’s on the second floor of the house. Though it was technically a guest bedroom, he knew everyone thought of it as his.

Shaking away the melancholy thoughts, Julien gathered a change of clothes and then padded into the bathroom that joined his room to Verne’s. He shrugged out of his soaked clothes and tossed them in the hamper. Knowing his luck, they would leave a puddle on the floor and he’d slip and fall on his ass getting out of the shower.

The only pain he wanted in his ass tomorrow morning did not involve the bathroom floor or a puddle of water in the least.

He batted the curtain to the side and then stepped into the gray-tiled shower. He turned the water on full blast and sighed in relief as the hot water met his frigid skin. It stung, but it was more discomfort than actual pain. And he knew the prickling sensation would ease away soon enough. It was nothing compared to three days of frantic itching and not knowing what….

That didn’t matter now, though, because he would stop it from happening.

He washed perfunctorily, thoughts still circling around their almost-kiss in the park. He wanted to kiss Verne, and he knew Verne felt the same, so he could call it an almost-kiss if he damn well wanted. Even if their lips hadn’t come that close to each other.

That would be remedied later tonight. He’d make damn sure of that.

His soap-slicked hand slid down his stomach and stroked his cock, which was very interested in the almost-kiss and later tonight. He bit his lip and tugged lightly, thumbing the head of his cock as he brought up the image of Verne on his back in the snow.

The door between the bathroom and Verne’s bedroom shook. “Asshole, if you use all the hot water jacking off, I’m going to kick your ass.” Julien flushed scarlet. “I’ll take care of that for you later,” Verne mumbled through the door.

And that one sentence brought so many visuals and fantasies with it that Julien shot his load onto the tile as if he were fifteen and still had no control whatsoever. He groaned and shook with his release, waiting for a minute to regain his strength and allowing the water to sluice the semen from his body.

He grumbled softly in embarrassment, turned off the water, and slung a towel around his hips. He rapped twice on the door. “I’ll hold you to that, bastard!” he called before walking into his bedroom and shutting the door behind him.

As tempting as the thought of joining Verne in the shower was, he couldn’t. Not yet. He remembered the precise moment he fucked it all up the first time around, and that’s when he’d get it right this time.

Julien had already waited six years. He could wait a few measly hours… torturous though they might be.

He collapsed on his bed, uncaring that the water on his body dribbled down to soak the sheets. He was… in the past. Okay. Right. He could handle this. He really could. Deep breaths. Just take deep—the sound of off-key singing from the bathroom inundated him, destroying what little progress he had made.

It was pure Verne, and he hadn’t heard it in years. This carefree, beautiful, caring, not-damaged young man in the bathroom was his best friend. Vivacious and real and
alive
. He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve a second chance, but he wouldn’t abuse it.

Tears fell from his cheeks to join the shower water. And, for once, Julien found he couldn’t be annoyed with a headache caused by crying. He would willingly endure this pain every day for the rest of his life if this were still real when he woke up.

By the time he got downstairs hours later, following his impromptu nap, the guests had already started to arrive. Cousins, aunts, uncles, those people twice-removed—they were all there. He mingled, chatted, hugged, shook hands until his ached, and generally acted effusively happy.

He was.

Dinner passed in a blur. He didn’t doubt that the food was delicious—Momma Verne was a professional chef—but he wouldn’t be able to tell you what he ate. His attention was focused on Verne’s foot rubbing his calf, and their knees bumping beneath the table.

Knowing looks from various others told him they weren’t fooling anyone, but he didn’t care. He knew what he wanted now, and he had absolutely nothing to hide. The Vernes prided themselves on being open-minded. They certainly wouldn’t kick up a fuss about him and Verne getting together.

As for his own momma, he wouldn’t be surprised to hear she was running a betting pool on when they would finally get a clue.

After dessert, they all headed for the living room en masse. What followed was an hour of audible torture: out of tune, off pitch, and exceedingly boisterous singing. He appreciated it more now… everything mattered more.

And then it happened.

“Boys, take the rest of the eggnog back to the kitchen, please.”

“Yes, Momma Verne,” Julien replied obediently. He grabbed the silver tray and carried it back to the kitchen. He set it down long enough to open the fridge and then moved the few remaining glasses inside.

When he turned around, déjà vu overwhelmed him. Verne stood in the doorway, leaning against the oak wood, shoulders slightly hunched and hands in his pockets. His blond hair was wavy from the earlier shower, and his eyes held that mix of hope and vulnerability.

Julien had no fucking clue how he had managed to walk away from that before. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to this time. He marched across the kitchen, threaded his fingers through Verne’s hair, and then tugged him down until their lips met.

This was what their first kiss should have been. Tender, but sure. Lacking in desperation. Full of need, warmth, and tongue. Minus the all-encompassing fear of sure death. The only thing similar between the two first kisses was one thing: love.

His lips clung to Verne’s stubbornly, possessively, before finally releasing their hold. His eyes fluttered open. He was still there.

Verne’s massive hands slid down from his neck to clasp his shoulders. “You better be serious about me, asshole. Because I’m never letting you go after that,” Verne breathed.

Julien leaned up and nuzzled his cheek against Verne’s. “I’ve never been more serious, bastard.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Thank fuck.” Verne’s hands slid down his shoulders and groped his ass. “Think I made you a promise earlier, Jules.”