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“I’m getting fat.”
James wonders if he should lie. If he should say no you’re not, my darling, you’re lithe and slender as the day we met, or worse still, no you’re not, you’re beautiful. As if the two things have any correlation whatsoever. But then he looks up from his food—the cheese in his quesadilla is the worrying shade of orange that bears ignoring—and all language falls out of his head.
Francis is sitting in the chair opposite him, legs spread. He’s wearing an overshirt—one of the nice flannels that James chose for him, a cream and navy plaid, a blue that picks out his eyes—with a white t-shirt beneath it. He’s opened the overshirt all the way and pushed it to either side of him, beneath his arms, and he’s sitting back, with one hand on his belly. To be more precise (and James is looking with a desperate, pinpoint precision) one hand is beneath the heft of his gut, his little finger resting along the edge of his belt. His t-shirt is tucked in and James takes note—horny, dry-mouthed note—of the way his belly hangs generously over his belt buckle, the soft indent of his belly button in the fabric. Yes, certainly, far more of a spread than when they first met. Francis’ other hand is beneath the gentle swell of his chest. James can see his nipples through the stretched fabric of his t-shirt.
“That’s okay,” James says hoarsely. He crosses his legs, uncrosses them. Squeezes them tightly together.
“It’s all this—” Francis pauses. “What?”
“I said that’s okay.” James isn't thinking about cheese anymore. He’s thinking about getting down on his knees in the middle of this ridiculous restaurant and putting his face in between Francis’ legs and feeling the warm and soft and hard parts of Francis’ body pressing into him. Preferably from all sides. Sucking his cock deep enough that he could bury his nose in the sandy trail of hair at Francis’ navel. Francis yanking him up by the collar and bending him in two, using all of his weight to fuck into him, using the small of James’ back as a place to rest his gut. After James’ ministrations he would come inside him in just a few thrusts, grunting into James’ neck, and then he’d press his tongue into James’ slick hole. James can tell that his face and neck have gone very, very red.
“You don’t mind?” His expression becomes devilish, one eyebrow raised.
“No. Not in the slightest.”
“Right.” Francis grins. Sits forward a little in his chair and watches James’ face as he does so, as he settles his belly in between his thighs. Gives it a subtle pat. James makes a strangled noise.
Francis’ grin widens. “Well, that’s good.”