Sunday Afternoon
By Palinurus
January 25, 1998
The wintry afternoon sun, low in the sky, spreads its yellow light into the far reaches of the apartment. The AD sits, or lies, in a tattered reclining chair that has not been retired for reasons of comfort and sentiment. The latest issue of 'The Economist' lies on his lap, open but face down. The sunlight, the warmth and the silence in the apartment conspire to take away his interest in reading. The sun shines almost directly into his eyes, so he couldn't read anyway. Soft classical music, the colorless kind of music that radio stations favor on Sunday afternoons, pours from the stereo.
His eyes are closed, but he is not asleep, just afloat in the intense, warm light. Not quite thinking, not quite dreaming, just drifting along. There is nothing like afternoon sunlight to set the mind loose, to free the spirit and let it go where the winds will take it. The magazine is an excuse; it's there to convince him he is doing something. Doing nothing makes him uneasy, but doing almost nothing is much easier. He's really reading, but the warmth of the room and the shimmering sunlight make it difficult to concentrate just now, necessitating a short break in an afternoon of catching up on the literature.
He wonders what happened to his restlessness. Being alone used to be difficult. Sunday afternoon used to be the worst time of the week. Other people walk their dog or play with their kids; they roam about the house preparing for the arrival of the dinner guests; they go to museums. Sunday afternoons alone used to pass as slowly as grammar classes in school - interminable hours of boredom and frustration.
Now all that is gone. Being alone on a Sunday afternoon is comfortable, quiet, relaxing, almost spiritual. Even when he's doing - almost - nothing, basking in the afternoon sunshine, admiring the brightness and warmth of the light that shines red through his closed eyelids.
He's woken up by a gentle touch on his cheek. He recognizes the smell of his lover immediately, accompanied by the tangy sweet scent of cold fresh air. He wakes up slowly, opens his eyes after a while, only to be blinded by the sunlight. He closes them again, and a cold hand gently keeps them closed. A finger touches his lips, then is replaced by a tongue. He gives in to the kiss, languid, slow, not moving. Despite his contented laziness, after a minute of that kiss, something in him begins to stir.
A hand removes the magazine, works on his belt, opens his fly, pushes his boxers out of the way to get to his cock, which is showing signs of interest. He groans, unwilling to wake up, to move even a single muscle. The other hand keeps his eyes closed, shutting out the light of the sun. A warm mouth descends on his cock. A moan rises up to the ceiling, and he resigns himself to fully waking up, reaching for the hand that lies across is eyes. His movement is blocked. The mouth leaves him; the warm air in the apartment suddenly seems colder. A soft voice says, "I don't suppose you could move over to make room for me here?"
"Mulder, what do you want? We could move to the bedroom, it would be much less risky - oh, never mind, that's the wrong argument to use."
"I guess... no, wait, I have a better idea - don't move."
He doesn't move, but he opens his eyes, tilting his head away from the blinding sunlight. He's alone. Soft noises are coming from the bedroom. He looks up at the ceiling, feeling fairly ridiculous, fully dressed, with his half erection poking out of his fly, pointing up. I hope he's not planning a practical joke, he thinks vaguely, not really worried - he's too lazy to care. He lies back again, closes his eyes.
The rustling noises come closer. He looks up, starts to smile. His lover is naked, wrapped in the bed comforter, draped around him like a Roman toga. "Very nice, Mulder - you must have been a senator in an earlier life."
Mulder walks over with regal strides. He looks down to the figure lying there, then drops to his knees next to the recliner. He quickly manipulates the half-erect cock into full hardness, stands up again and drops the comforter. "Don't move," he warns again, then lifts one leg over the chair and sets it down on the other side, his back to his lover. Looking over his shoulder, he lowers himself onto the straining erection that seems to find its home by some kind of heat-seeking device. He sits down quickly. Too quickly - a loud gasp indicates that he has overestimated the flexibility of his sphincter. The chair creaks, but that is its only protest.
The AD watches the proceedings with amused fascination, until the slick heat, the tightness, the protesting flexion of the muscles takes his breath away. He is panting slightly by the time Mulder settles down against him and reaches down to recover the comforter and drape it over him. The extra weight presses him down pleasantly into the chair's soft padding, reinforcing his lethargy. The warmth seems to emanate from his cock, slowly radiates into the rest of his body. They lie in silence, the warmth melting their bodies together, the sunlight blending their minds.
He moves his right hand, reaches around for Mulder's cock and touches it tentatively. It jumps happily in response. The body covering his shifts slightly, produces a sigh. His other arm is caught in a strong hand. He strokes slowly, with soft, even strokes, until he feels his fingers getting moist; then he speeds up, his grip becomes stronger. Mulder raises a knee to lift the comforter out of the way. His fingers on the AD's arm now dig into the flesh. Random muscles in his body begin to twitch slightly. His head falls back onto the shoulder behind him. He moans, softly at first. Suddenly, his back arches, he cries out, then falls back, making both the AD and the chair groan in protest. Slowly, he settles in again, goes slack, his breathing quiets down.
When things are silent again, Mulder gathers all arms he can find, stacks them on top of his chest, and heaves a deep sigh. "You didn't have to do that," he says.
"I know. But you didn't mind, did you?"
"No, I didn't mind..."
Moments later, Mulder's head falls sideways. The AD pushes it up again, rests it against his shoulder. He is completely immobilized, kept very warm by the boneless body on top of him, and pleasantly aroused. His erection is sheltered inside Mulder's body, and he wouldn't mind if it stayed there for the rest of the weekend, and maybe even longer. The sun is still shining, though its color has changed to a slightly darker tone of yellow now. The radio is still playing softly. He nibbles on the ear next to his chin, and closes his eyes again.
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