Description Leo, the aggrieved grad student barista, is having a really no good, terrible, shitty day. And that’s without someone having randomly mailed him a package containing a single, inexplicable, for-some-reason-blue banana.
|Updated||24 Aug 2018|
Leo turned his back, rather deliberately, on the inexplicable blue banana sitting pertly in its equally inexplicable guitar-gear box and stomped off to the bedroom of his dingy but serviceable top-floor shoebox apartment. He was already having a fucked up day, but nothing’s more fucked up than getting a banana in the mail.
He growled a little as he heard the cold rain picking up again outside through his bedroom window. It had felt good pulling off his wet khaki cargo jacket, but now he was standing in the middle of his chilly bedroom in a thin, soaked-through black Starbucks tee that clung to his skinny torso, and heavy, equally sopping black trousers that seemed to want to plaster themselves to his only moderately more presentable legs and butt in all the wrong places. At least his boots were dry, mostly, though his socks most definitely weren’t. Wet clothes in a cold room was the worst. And of course his old building was always weirdly cold, especially in his bedroom. What was up with that? It wasn’t drafts or anything, it was just… layered with an extra sheen of chill, like he was living in a refrigerator crisper drawer. One of Leo’s exes had even joked it was probably ghosts, haunting the building and watching him beat off. Leo wouldn’t be surprised. The long wall that the corridor shared with the bedroom and kitchen was painted a saturated ice blue, which probably didn’t help much either. He should nail that fucking banana to it for decoration.
He stood in the middle of his room a good minute, trying to calm himself, his usually spiky blond hair flat and dripping. He was feeling irritable and indecisive. He wanted to put on some clean and dry togs in place of all the wet, clammy shit he currently had on. But almost all of the clean clothes he had were bundled up in the laundry bag he’d brought back from the wash-and-fold that morning and hadn’t had any time to do anything with before he’d had to rush out to cover what turned out to have been the worst lunch shift ever. The bag still sat there in the middle of his bed, a prodigy of the future and an impediment to the present all in one. He glared at it balefully for a moment before furiously ripping off wet shirt, wet pants, wet shoes, wet socks (the worst), and wet boxer-briefs, chucking all of it at the laundry basket in the closet to deal with later.
Naked. Naked was good. He was still cold, but naked was definitely an improvement over damp socks and underwear.
He gave the laundry another dark look. It would all have to be put away, and he needed to ramp his energy down a bit first. A hot shower first, then dry clothes.
His stomach grumbled loudly. He sighed. “Food,” he muttered, talking aloud to himself as had become his habit since he’d started living alone. “Who the fuck designed people to constantly have to worry about food every five minutes?” He gritted his teeth. He had basically no food in the house—that Subway roast beef sandwich in the fridge was guaranteed to have gone bad by now, and he still had no idea where that bag of frozen succotash in the freezer had come from or how it had gotten there, but either way he wasn’t going near it. Going out to hunt for food was out. Getting all wet again was at the bottom of the things he least wanted to do at the moment, and that was a long list.
He remembered the inexplicable banana and groaned. He shook his head, smiling ruefully at how bad his day was getting. Here he was, naked, shivering, and hungry in his tiny ice-box apartment, and his choices for food were down to a banana someone had dyed blue and randomly shipped him in the mail. He padded back to the kitchen, rolling his eyes. “Man,” he said to himself, wanting to laugh at the ridiculousness of it as he dropped his bare ass into the kitchen chair, “I am definitely the luckiest man on earth.”
He looked over the offending fruit, frowning a little. It seemed like a firm, healthy, freshly ripened nine-inch banana, perfectly normal apart from the coloring and its unorthodox method of entry into his life. Its phallic nature was not lost on him, but he tended to ignore his brain when it tried to make ordinary stuff dirty. “So what are you?” he asked it. “Are you, like, some promotional thing from Whole Foods or something? A gag gift from bluecondoms dot com?” The banana made no reply, and rooting around the packing peanuts he’d tipped out of the box yielded no flyer or explanatory blurb-with-coupon or anything else that might clue him in to why someone might dye a banana blue and ship it to an aggrieved barista.
His stomach burbled again, nudging him to take the leap. He grunted and snatched up the banana. He peeled it skeptically at first, but, reassured that the fruit itself inside was only faintly blue (probably from the dye, Leo reasoned), he sighed and took a big bite.
It tasted… like a banana. He was only slightly disappointed.
Leo shook his head. His momma always said he made extra drama for himself. He swallowed the first bite down, then froze for a moment, waiting for sudden signs of instant, urgent revolt from his stomach. But all signs pointed only to relief and gratitude from the demanding receptacle, so he gave the banana a nod, confirming its having passed muster as food, and took another largish bite.
At that moment, over the clatter of rain and the distant yapping of that wretched dog, Leo heard the muffled sound of his phone ringing.
He bent his head, clasping the half-eaten banana against his forehead in defeat. He pulled back and glared at the cerulean fruit, and then glanced back toward the bedroom where his phone was undoubtedly still lurking in his trouser pocket. The strident sound of the default ring came again—no telling if it was a telemarketer or something life-or-death important, and with his luck today he’d guess wrong. With sudden decision he swallowed what banana mush he had in his maw, even though it wasn’t quite ready to go down yet, and then crammed the rest of the sweet, pulpy flesh into his mouth even as he jumped to his feet. Dropping the peel into his kitchen trash and trundled hurriedly down the hardwood corridor to his bedroom, chewing madly the whole way.
Quickly retrieving the sodden trousers from the basket he fought with them for a minute, legs flailing wildly, before finally retrieving the still-ringing phone. Sure he shouldn’t risk letting it go to voicemail he thumbed “accept” without really looking at the number and put the phone to his ear, still chewing. “Hewwo?” he said, struggling to speak around half a half-masticated banana.
“Hey, babe,” came a gratingly cheery baritone voice. “What are you eating? Or should I say who?”
“Ugh,” Leo groaned, falling back in his bed in a huff and landing awkwardly on the bag of clean laundry instead. He should have let it go to voicemail. He settled against the laundry bag and chewed disconsolately, managing to swallow at least part of the mouthful down. “What do you want, Asa?” he said, a little more intelligibly.
The voice on the phone sounded affronted. “Is that any way to talk to your favorite ex?”
“The ex I’m gladdest is my ex,” he amended. They’d been good friends, once, after sharing a shift for a few months at the first coffee shop he’d worked at, and in the end, so to speak, Leo had finally succumbed to the temptation of Asa’s very fine ass despite rumors of his roulette-wheel approach to dating. But a humpy, nicely proportioned dancer-in-training who was fun to joke around with while you were steaming milk for rude customers didn’t necessarily translate into an attentive, or faithful, lover, and the inevitable explosive breakup had been made worse, in Leo’s mind, by Asa’s persistent efforts over the ensuing six months to resume their friendship in spite of all the things Asa had said about Leo’s questionable taste in fiction, clothes, and career. He swallowed the last of the banana down. “What do you want, Asa?”
“Well,” his ex said, a little put off, “I was calling to see if you wanted to go out to Ganymede’s tonight. They’ve got amateur go-go boy tryouts tonight, that’s always a blast,” he added, warming back up to his topic. “C’mon, Leo, come out with me and have some fun.”
“Those are two mutually exclusive propositions at the moment,” Leo said darkly. “Honestly, Asa, the ghosts in my building are more fun to talk to than you.”
Asa tsked, sounding both annoyed and sad. “You know, Leo,” he said, sounding exasperated, “I love you, hon, but I don’t remember why even dated anymore.”
Leo pondered saying something about Asa’s very fine ass, and how good it felt around Leo’s reasonably-sized cock, but he decided not to risk feeding his ex’s ego. He was pretty much fed up with everything that had happened between them since they’d started fucking. “You know what, neither do I,” he said cattily. “In fact, let’s say we didn’t. We never dated, we never fucked, we just stayed the bestest of friends and kept away from each other’s junk.”
Leo frowned, his brows drawing together. Why was he talking about Asa’s junk, anyway? Sure, he had a nice ass, but… No. Leo definitely knew better than to go there.
Asa seemed to feel the same way. “Well, of course,” he cooed. “Why would we ruin a beautiful friendship like ours? Besides,” he sniffed, “morose baristas are not my type.”
Leo shook his head in amusement, settling into his makeshift seat. “Right, because you’re looking for monogamy in the suburbs with Mister Right,” he bantered back, feeling his lips quirking in an almost-smile.
“Maaay-be,” Asa hedged. Leo huffed a laugh. It was an open secret that the heartbreaker dancer was a closet romantic—just a very picky one. “I just haven’t found him yet,” he added defensively. “Can you blame me for having fun ‘til I do? Seriously, Leo, come out tonight. It’s been ages since I saw you trying to dance! It’s adorable.”
Leo snorted. “Hey, I’m an awesome dancer,” he objected, just to be contrary.
“You are,” Asa agreed. “That’s why it’s a shame you haven’t gone out with us in ages, hon, because you dance like a dream. I keep telling you you should come to tryouts with me. You could totally have a career on Broadway if—”
“I know, I know,” Leo said distractedly, cutting into the familiar refrain. He didn’t like dancing in public, since the truth was Asa got a little jealous and competitive, and it ended up being a mess. These days he only danced in his own apartment, with nobody to see but himself. Nobody living, anyway, he thought with a wry smile. “Maybe if the whole ivory tower thing falls through.”
“Hmph,” Asa said. Leo knew what his dancer friend thought of Leo’s pursuit of a graduate degree and a nice, secure teaching post somewhere pounding the merits of medieval French literature into ungrateful undergrads. “You are simply determined to be poor.”
“Hey, I have scads of money,” Leo joked. “I just hate to spend it.” He looked around at his small but homey shoebox appraisingly. He should probably buy this building, though, he mused. It would probably be the easiest way to make sure the roof repairs got done.
“Don’t I know it. So are you coming out tonight?” Asa insisted. “You could be my wing-man.”
Leo sighed. “To be honest, Ase, I’ve had a fucked up day. It’s wet, it’s cold, and frankly I’m in a shitty mood.”
“But—” Asa began, but Leo cut him off again.
“Go without me,” Leo said, ready to end the call. Asa was a great friend but was just a little too “on” for him tonight. “I promise you’ll meet your Mister Right tonight and he’ll suck your gigantic cock and you’ll both fall madly in love.”
“If you say so,” Asa said doubtfully. Leo knew most guys were afraid to do much with Asa’s enormous member, but there had to be someone who was up to the job. “Well, feel better, hon.” With that, he rang off.
Leo looked at the phone in his hand. “That man,” he said, “needs to be well and truly fucked.”
“I think you mean someone else needs that,” said a slightly accented, disembodied voice. “Maybe you, perhaps.”
Leo groaned, tossing the phone onto the bed beside him. “Christ, not you too, Luigi,” he snarked. “That’s exactly what I need. The perfect hot guy to come into my life and suck my dick and make everything better with a single kiss.” He sat up, dropping his bare, slightly hairy legs over the side of the bed, and, reluctantly, pulled the bag of laundry beside him so he could start pulling out the clean clothes and sorting them into piles to put away. He might have agreed, only his prospects seemed even dimmer than Asa’s quest for his own cocksucking dream man. He hadn’t had time to even try to work out lately, and he was feeling kind of scrawny and unattractive. Next to his buff and humpy friends, Asa included, Leo felt sour about his own chances. He drew some pants from the bag and then some folded button-up shirts, setting them behind him. The tee shirts were more of a mess, and with a sigh he went about refolding them.
“You should try, at least,” Luigi said, sounding amused. “You have not brought anyone home to meet me in months.”
Leo set another refolded tee on the pile beside him. “Come on, Luigi, how can they meet you,” he groused absently as he pulled out a small stack of gray and black boxer-briefs from near the bottom of the bag. He examined the sloppy folds with a frown and began refolding them, too, into tight, boxy quarters. “It’s not like anyone else can hear you.” He was used to it by now and didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about his “ghost whispering thing”, but he could only joke about it even with Asa, and he’d certainly never bring it up with some random fuck he brought home—not that there’d been a lot of those lately, as Luigi had been kind enough to point out.
“Seriously, Leo,” Luigi said calmly. “You must have some romance in your life. You spend too much time… by yourself.”
Leo had finished with the underwear and set the little pile aside, and now was staring at what was left in the laundry bag. “What I need is a competent laundry service,” he growled. He held up the remaining articles, gripping them in one hand as he gestured to them with the other. His indignation flared, which of course sparked his tendency to sarcasm. “Look at this! Three socks! Because obviously I have three feet, so I’m the guy that needs three socks!” He fell back on the bad, this time landing across the short stack of three-legged jeans he’d put behind him. He didn’t care. He just lay there, splayed and aggravated, his big bare feet kicking out to rest on their heels against the cool nap of the small area rug he’d gotten cheap at Target because it was perfect for exactly this spot, especially for preventing cold-feet-on-a-cold-floor moments first thing in the morning. He tended to think about his feet and what discomfited them… for what felt like obvious reasons. His feet were special, even nothing else in his life was.
“But you do have three feet, Leo,” Luigi’s disembodied voice said patiently. “So maybe three socks is all you sent?”
Leo extended the hand clutching the socks straight up, without otherwise moving. “Three mismatched socks?” he asked icily. He glared at up them: one white athletic, one vivid blue, and one argyle. He didn’t even wear argyle socks.
There was a beat, and Leo could imagine Luigi shrugging, maybe trying not to snicker at Leo’s antics. It was kind of calming, imagining Luigi as they talked. He’d often wondered what he looked like. Of course, his tendency toward dirty thoughts made him imagine his invisible roommate as a hot, turn-of-the-century Italian stud, with naturally hard muscles, a hairy chest, and a wry smile that begged to be kissed. It was harmless to picture him like that, and Leo had had more than a few alone-time moments imagining Leo’s glinting eyes and crooked, full-lipped smile.
“So what if they’re mismatched,” Luigi was saying, his tone philosophical. “I never worried about whether my socks matched.”
Leo let his hand fall back onto the bed again. “And look what happened to you,” he said dolefully. It was a running gag between them.
“I lived a long and happy life,” Luigi said, accustomed to Leo’s needling. “I met a lot of people, and none of them talked about matching socks. Of course, there were not a lot of three-legged boys back then,” he added, sounding amused.
“I dunno,” Leo said from where he lay, staring up at the long, thing water stain on the ceiling above him. The storm seemed to be calming, but the rain was still falling steadily outside. It made him feel lonely, the way thinking about being the only three-legged guy he’d ever heard of usually did. He drew his long, skinny legs closer together, letting the outer thighs brush lightly along the middle one. It was a feeling that had always comforted him.
He liked to imagine there were lots of guys like him out there, only he hadn’t met them. Hot guys, of course, because Leo’s imagination tended that way. They’d be scattered through history, too, including back in Luigi’s day. “Eh, I’m sure there were a few of us around,” he said wistfully, wanting to pretend. “Us three-legged boys always turn up. People love us,” he added wryly, and though he meant it ironically, thinking of Asa’s comment about him being morose, he considered the three-legged guys he’d read about, cropping up here and there in all kinds of stories and situations, and generally they really were popular and well-regarded. Not that that included him, Leo thought wrongly.
“Sure, sure,” Luigi agreed. “I said ‘not a lot’, remember?”
“Yep,” Leo said with forced chirpiness. “Good-looking, too, us three-legged boys,” he went on with an ironic grin, continuing the joke. “Well-built and crazy hung, every one of us.”
“As I well know,” Luigi said. He sounded a little as though he wasn’t sure he minded seeing a certain nicely muscled and well-endowed barista in his altogether on a regular basis.
Leo pushed himself up on his elbows and grinned slyly in the general direction of the voice. “Aw, Luigi,” he goaded his ghost-friend, “you’ve been checking me out, haven’t you? That’s so hot,” he added coyly.
“Not even a little bit,” Luigi sniffed.
“I knew it!” Leo crowed. “I love this. You’re totally into me. Admit it, you get a ghost hard-on just scoping me out every night!”
“There’s no such thing as a ‘ghost hard-on’,” Luigi said unconvincingly.
Leo sat up, smiling and biting his lower lip. He was very intrigued by the the idea of Luigi’s simmering interest in him. He certainly hadn’t had much luck with living guys lately! He seemed to attract guys that liked him, sure, but they weren’t a good match personality wise. And that was definitely not the problem with his ghost roommate.
Leo knew the part of the story he’d told him—he’d been a working man something like ninety years back, living here with his parents and laboring in a factory, learning English and making friends in the neighborhood. He’d risen to foreman, pulling down enough pay to start saving some money, before dying in an explosion just shy of his fortieth birthday. He’d never mentioned a girlfriend in all his tales of old New York, and Leo was thrilled that his occasional teasing about sharing a room with a gay guy who beat off a lot might actually be hitting some real paydirt.
He looked around the room, wondering where Luigi was looking at him from. “So, roomie, did you ever think about… reaching out and getting a little of this?” he teased saucily, nodding down at his buff torso with its naturally square pecs and tight, flat abs, his three long, shapely legs, and the impressing equipment between each of them.
“Le-o,” Luigi said remonstratively. He sounded a little put out.
“C’mon,” Leo persisted. “You were a hot, randy Italian dude once. Right?”
“And you definitely know what to do with a hot cock or two.”
“I’ll bet,” Leo went on, eyes glinting, “if you tried, you could appear to me now, hot as you ever were. Hotter, even. You can show me how you did it in your day. You’re a ghost, you’re basically made of will-power, right? You can make it happen. It has to be possible.”
“You’re crazy,” Luigi muttered, but to Leo’s delight he sounded uncertain.
“You can do it,” Leo coaxed urgently, finding himself actually eager to see in Luigi could really do it—manifest himself, right here in his room. He hadn’t been sure at first, but somehow he knew it was actually possible, and he was finding he was really, really into it. “Come on, Luigi,” he said, egging his friend on, wanting to see what would happen. “You can do it. Come and touch me, come and be with me—”
Suddenly his babble of encouragement was interrupted by warm, firm lips pressing hard against his. Leo kissed back almost without thinking, then broke the kiss to lean back, gaping at he what he saw. There, kneeling before him, was the faintly translucent and very naked figure of a strikingly handsome, well-defined, and very well hung Italian man, with full, mobile lips, dark brows, and skin that in this light looked tan and eminently lickable. His dark hair was thick and combed back from his face, parted in the center, but his square jaw was clean-shaven, and his brown eyes were dancing. Leo placed his hands on the man’s warm, well-built shoulders, hardly aware of what he was doing. This was, bar none, the sexiest, most handsome man Leo had ever seen.
“It worked!” Luigi gushed, as Leo reached up and cupped a warm, firm cheek, feeling the bristle of Luigi’s beard beneath the skin.
“It sure did,” Leo said, a little awestruck.
Luigi returned the gesture, caressing Leo’s cheek. “I never thought…” he began. He licked his lips and let himself glance down, raking his eyes shamelessly over Leo’s unusual and very sexy form before meeting his eyes again. “I am glad I could.”
Leo was looking Luigi over, too, and the extent to which he liked what he saw was revealed by his impressive tools rapidly expanding in tandem to full and rigid attention. Luigi, for his part, was already fully aroused, his huge, fat, and uncut cock red and ready against his hip. Apparently this “ghost hard-on” deal really was a thing after all.
“I’m glad you could too,” Leo said with a smirk, as the newly manifested and very aroused young Luigi stared hungrily at Leo’s twin almost footlong erections where they bobbed wetly against his long, cobbled abs.
“Will you… let me taste?” Luigi asked tentatively, unable to tear his eyes away from the huge, gorgeous cocks.
“I’ll be mad if you don’t,” Leo admitted. He slid his hand gently behind Luigi’s head, ready to guide it forward.
“Hmmm,” Luigi hummed, eyeing the two hard, round pricks before him as if struggling to choose. “I only wish I could take care of both at once,” he said regretfully.
A wicked idea occurred to Leo. “You know,” he said, and Luigi looked up hopefully. Leo ran his fingers through Luigi’s thick, silky hair thoughtfully. Leo knew Luigi had lived to nearly forty—but here he was, appearing at his prime, a strikingly handsome young not much more than Leo’s age. “If you can choose to manifest yourself to me,” he said slowly, “as the hottest version of yourself, from when you were at your most young and handsome…”
“Yes?” Luigi said, equally intrigued, one eyebrow arched high. Leo’s cocks twitched and jumped, and they both looked down, equally primed for a solution.
“If you can manifest that way,” Leo went on, “you can manifest yourself… any way you choose,” he finished meaningfully.
Luigi’s eyes widened—and then he grinned. “Maybe we shall try that next time,” he said. “For now…” And with that Luigi leapt up and swallowed Leo’s wide, eleven-inch left cock all in one swift motion. Before he could object to his other hard-on being left out, Luigi reached up with a firm, lightly callused hand and began stroking in easy tandem with the deep-throating he was giving Leo. Leo gasped loudly and watched, awestruck, as the corded, work-honed muscles of Luigi’s broad shoulders and powerful arms worked below him, and to his surprise and chagrin he found himself barreling uncontrollably toward a explosive climax. He tried to hold back, but the orgasm seized Leo and threw him into screaming pleasure. He gripped Luigi’s shoulders hard as he came down his ghostly roommate’s throat and all over his own scraggly-haired chest and firm, tight abs.
“Fuck, Luigi,” her panted, as the Italian stud pulled off of Leo’s grateful tool, aiming a smug smirk up at him like this was his plan all along, going back all ninety years since he’d been a flesh-and-blood hunk in this very apartment. “Fuck, dude,” Leo huffed, “you really do know what to do with a hot cock or two.”
Luigi’s smirk bloomed into a full-fledged shit-eating grin. “That, my beautiful tripodal man,” he said, “was only the appetizer.” Then he leaned up and kissed him, hard and possessive, and despite everything cynical he’d ever believed about life, love, and romance, Leo knew that this was what he’d been waiting for his whole life.
Much later they lay curled up in Leo’s bed, the high-end mattress and high thread-count sheets—one of Leo’s few indulgences—luxuriously cozy beneath them. The once carefully folded and stacked laundry was pushed heedlessly aside in all directions, toppled to the floor or shoved to remoter corners of the queen-sized expanse. Leo lay with his head on Luigi’s dark, firmly muscled chest, letting his his fingers drift through the swath of curly chest hair, his pinky brushing idly against a dark, round nipple. There was no sound of a heartbeat, no movement of Luigi breathing… but Luigi was warm like a man, his muscles rippled like a man—heck, he even smelled like a man. His cock certainly behaved like a man’s.
Leo was fascinated by all of it, and most of all by the idea that his roommate and friend really could be more than a comforting voice on a wet, shitty day.
“Is it hard?” he asked after they’d lain there a while.
Luigi snorted. “Please, Leo, give me a minute! I’m a hundred and thirty years old!”
Leo chuckled, glad to have a reason to laugh. “No, doofus,” he said. “I mean, is it hard to be like this? To be here with me?”
Luigi paused a moment before answering. “A little,” he admitted. “Yes. It is an effort.” Leo lifted his head to look at his handsome face, worried he’d see pain or discomfort there, but Luigi was smiling fondly at him. “But it is worth it,” he added with an easy shrug.
Leo nodded and lowered his head again. “It’ll get easier,” he said confidently. “You’ll see. Before you know it you’ll be making yourself all solid and sexy as easy as breathing.” When Luigi snorted again he added, “As easy as breathing is for me, I meant.”
“Hmm,” Luigi said, pondering Leo’s words like someone wondering whether they could be true, and hoping they might be. Unaccountably, Leo’s pulse started to speed up. Did Luigi want them to be true?
“I’ve heard you use that word before, ‘doofus’,” Luigi said after a moment. “What does it mean?”
“Fuck if I know,” Leo said, wishing his sub-par language skills were better. It was the biggest impediment to his chances of getting a doctorate—he might have to settle for a master’s. “Medieval French or Latin I could give you the full run-down,” he mocked himself sardonically, “but, fuck.” He hmmed, checking again through his perfect knowledge of the two languages, but ‘doofus’ definitely didn’t check out. Whatever.
He swung his left two legs over Luigi’s, settling in closer to him as he went on toying with his chest hair. The momentary silence between them felt significant, and Leo found himself uncharacteristically afraid to speak.
“Is that what you want, Leo?” Luigi asked at last in a gentle voice. He lifted his hand to sift through Leo’s spiky blond hair, which was finally dry apart from a bit of sweat from their exertions. “Would you like me to stay?”
Leo didn’t dare look up at Luigi’s face, so he stayed where he was. There was still no hint of a heartbeat from Luigi, but his own heart was definitely thumping fast. “If you want,” he said, trying to sound diffident.
There was another long pause, during which Leo stared blindly in the direction of the bedside window, dreading Luigi’s rejection. Then he heard Luigi’s calm voice. It was just one word, but it seemed to change everything.
“Sure,” Luigi said. Then he added, “But only if you dance for me again sometime.”
Leo huffed a laugh. He’d forgotten Luigi had seen him dance. “Maybe we can dance together,” he said.
“I would like that,” Luigi said, sounding pleased. “I have some moves you will definitely enjoy.”
Leo smiled and closed his eyes, nestling against Luigi’s manly, welcoming chest. Talking to him like this was a little like before, when Luigi was just a voice, but it was also so much better. Sleep was stealing up on him, and then after sleep there would be more fucking, and maybe time enough to do the reading for the next morning’s class. After that was his meeting with his doctoral dissertation advisor, then work at stupid Starbucks, because it wasn’t in him not to earn a living, and fuck it, he really did like the zen mechanics and the wonderful smells involved in making coffee. If only the people weren’t so obnoxious…
Well, that was tomorrow. Today was over, and though it had been remarkably shitty, it had somehow ended better than he could have ever imagined… all thanks, had he known it, to an inexplicable blue banana.