Landing

It started with a lurch. Then a scream—from somewhere behind Nathan—high and thin and utterly human. His coffee spilled instantly, scorching his thigh before it soaked into his slacks. The tray table snapped shut with a jolt. Across the aisle, a woman clutched a rosary to her chest with white-knuckled desperation.

 

The plane rolled sharply to the right, an unnatural tilt that sent loose belongings sliding and passengers gasping. Nathan gripped the armrest, heart battering against his ribs. Then the aircraft dropped—suddenly, violently—as if the air had been yanked out from underneath. A laptop clattered from an overhead bin and hit the floor with a sickening thunk. Lights flickered. The cabin let out a collective moan of fear.

 

Then came the hiss and thump of oxygen masks dropping from the ceiling.

 

Nathan’s hand shot out, blind with panic, and latched onto the arm of the man seated beside him.

 

“Easy,” the man said, calm but not unaffected. His voice trembled slightly. “You’re alright. We’re still here.”

 

Nathan realized he was holding on tight—painfully tight—only when the man placed a firm, grounding hand over his.

 

Their eyes met. The man’s were gray, flecked with something steelier. Not placid. Just focused. His face was pale.

 

When the engines steadied slightly, the captain’s voice came through the intercom—crackling, uneven.

 

“We’ve experienced a systems failure. We are making an emergency landing in Amarillo. Please remain calm. Brace positions.”

 

The cabin fell into a hushed, almost unreal silence. Then: prayers. Whimpering. A few frantic sobs. The sound of the woman across the aisle muttering the Hail Mary over and over again.

 

Nathan’s jaw clenched. His entire body was shaking.

 

“I’m Grant,” the man beside him said quietly. “Just… so I’ve said it, in case.”

 

Nathan turned, blinked, nodded. “Nathan.”

 

When the wheels hit the tarmac—hard—it felt like the plane might not hold together. The landing gear screamed. There was a violent jerk, then a fishtail. Overhead bins popped. Someone cried out. And then they were still.

 

The smell of scorched rubber and ozone seeped through the vents.

 

They were alive.

 

At 2:14 a.m., the Amarillo terminal looked like an unfinished dream. The rain had started—light but insistent—and pooled on the tarmac in shallow glimmers. Inside, the air was fluorescent and cold, littered with passengers who’d made it through but weren’t quite processing it yet.

 

Nathan stood near a broken arrivals board, his soaked shirt clinging to his back. His hands still shook. He had no luggage—it had gone on to Denver—and his phone screen flickered weakly before dying for good.

 

He didn’t even hear Grant approach until he spoke.

 

“Hell of a night.”

 

Nathan turned. Grant looked pale but composed, as if his calm were a performance meant to stop himself from unraveling. His blazer was damp at the shoulders, his shirt rumpled. He held two Styrofoam cups of what might have been coffee.

 

“You alright?” he asked, offering one.

 

Nathan took it. His fingers wrapped gratefully around the warmth.

 

“I keep feeling like the floor’s still moving.”

 

Grant nodded slowly. “You’re not the only one.”

 

He looked off across the terminal for a long moment, then back to Nathan.

 

“I rented a house just outside town. Bit of luck—it’s already available. Two bedrooms. I wasn’t planning to offer this to anyone, but…” He trailed off, like he wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence. “You shouldn’t be stuck here alone tonight.”

 

Nathan looked at him for a long time.

 

“You’re serious.”

 

“I am.” He gave a small, tired shrug. “You can say no.”

 

And Nathan should have. But the thought of sitting in a cold terminal all night with trembling hands and no dry clothes felt impossible.

 

He nodded once. “Okay.”

 

The drive was quiet. The car smelled faintly of old pine air freshener and the ghost of smoke. Grant drove with both hands on the wheel, knuckles white at first, then gradually loosening. The dash light cast a soft orange glow across his face.

 

Nathan leaned his head back against the window. The world outside was a dark, rain-streaked blur.

 

“I thought we were going down,” he said after a while. His voice cracked.

 

Grant didn’t look over. “So did I.”

 

“You didn’t seem scared.”

 

“I was.” He exhaled. “I was trying not to fall apart. Watching you helped.”

 

Nathan frowned. “Why me?”

 

Grant finally glanced at him, then turned back to the road.

 

“You looked like you needed someone to believe it’d be okay. And I… needed to believe it too.”

 

Nathan said nothing. But that stuck with him.

 

The house was small and modern, like someone had airlifted a design catalog out to the edge of town. Wood floors, clean lines, too-new furniture. The desert wind pushed against it, low and persistent.

 

Inside, Grant showed him the guest room, handed him a towel, pointed him to a hot shower.

 

“Take your time,” he said. “There’s soup on the stove if you want it. And whiskey.”

 

Nathan stood under the hot water for fifteen minutes. Steam filled the small bathroom. He dried off slowly, pulled on a thick cotton robe he found hanging on a hook. The man in the mirror looked wrung out, hollowed. But his eyes—his eyes were steady again.

 

He stepped into the hallway and found Grant standing near the fire, barefoot, holding two glasses.

 

“No strings,” Grant said, simply. “Just company.”

 

Nathan walked over, took the glass. Their fingers touched. The warmth spread from his palm into his chest.

 

They sat on opposite ends of the couch. The fire crackled softly. The wind outside howled. They didn’t talk for a while.

 

“I keep thinking I should be over it,” Grant said eventually. “We landed. Everyone’s alive. But I still feel like I left part of myself on that plane.”

 

Nathan looked into the flames.

 

“I think I came close to disappearing on it,” he said. “I didn’t realize how close until I saw your hand on mine.”

 

Grant didn’t respond immediately. He didn’t need to.

 

Eventually, Nathan looked over.

 

“I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

 

Grant studied him for a moment. Then nodded. “Alright.”

 

Nathan hesitated. “Not for… anything physical. Just—just not alone.”

 

Grant set down his glass. “Then come on.”

 

Grant’s room was dim, warm, the bed too large for one person. Nathan slipped under the covers, and Grant followed, not touching, just nearby.

 

A long moment passed before Nathan shifted slightly, and Grant reached out—just an arm around his shoulder. Strong. Still. Nathan leaned into it like he was trying to remember how it felt to be held.

 

Grant’s voice came low.

 

“You’re safe.”

 

Nathan’s chest hitched.

 

They lay there for a long time. The silence wasn’t heavy. It was human. Every so often, Nathan felt the pressure of Grant’s breath against his neck, the weight of his hand at Nathan’s side.

 

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty.

Nathan shifted again, only slightly, enough that his back curved a little more into Grant’s chest. Grant didn’t move at first. But then he exhaled softly—like something in him unclenched—and let his palm flatten gently against Nathan’s ribs, the contact calm and noninvasive. Through the cotton robe, it was still unmistakably warm, still a choice.

Nathan’s hand came up and closed over Grant’s.

Grant’s forehead touched the back of Nathan’s shoulder. Not a kiss, just pressure. A point of contact that said I'm still here.

Nathan turned his head slightly, enough to glimpse Grant’s profile in the dark. Close now. Eyes lowered. That gray gaze more naked than anything else in the room.

“Did you mean it?” Nathan asked.

Grant’s brow furrowed. “Mean what?”

“That you watched me because you needed someone to believe.”

Grant nodded, then hesitated. “Yeah. But also because I—”

He stopped. Swallowed.

Nathan turned fully now, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other still linked with Grant’s. Their knees brushed. The space between them shrank—not erased, but questioned.

Grant’s fingers brushed the edge of his wrist, exploratory, not invasive. His voice dropped.

“Can I…?”

Nathan leaned forward. Their foreheads met first—just that. Then Grant’s hand rose, touched Nathan’s jaw with a gentleness that made the room feel smaller, closer. Nathan didn’t pull away. Their breaths mingled.

When they kissed, it was slow, uncertain—not the hunger of survival but the careful ache that comes after. A question, not a conquest.

Nathan’s hand slipped into Grant’s hair. Grant deepened the kiss by a fraction. There was no urgency, only the strange miracle of nearness after fear. When they pulled back, it wasn’t distance—it was breath.

Grant's hand slid beneath the cotton robe, finding the soft curve of Nathan's stomach. There was a moment of hesitation—a fleeting self-consciousness in Nathan's eyes—but Grant's touch was reverent, appreciative.

"You're beautiful," Grant whispered, his palm spreading across the warm expanse of Nathan's middle, fingers tracing the gentle swell where years of desk work had softened him.

Nathan let out a shaky breath. "I haven't been called that in a long time."

His own hands moved to Grant's shirt buttons, fumbling slightly as he undid them one by one. Grant's chest was broad, dusted with silver-flecked hair that tapered down to his navel. A man's body—lived in, marked by time, carrying the comfortable weight of middle age around his waist and sides.

"Look at us," Nathan murmured, a half-smile appearing. "Two survivors."

Grant nodded, understanding perfectly. He untied Nathan's robe, exposing him fully. The firelight cast amber shadows across their bodies as Grant lowered himself, pressing his chest against Nathan's. The contact was exquisite—the soft friction of skin against skin, the press of Grant's weight, solid and real.

"I want to feel all of you," Nathan said, voice breaking.

Their bodies moved together, belly against belly, thighs intertwining. Nathan gasped at the sensation of Grant's chest hair rubbing against his nipples, at the pressure of hardness against his hip. Every point of contact seemed to wash away the terror of hours before. Grant's mouth found the soft spot beneath Nathan's ear, then the curve where neck met shoulder.

"Can I taste you?" Grant asked, his breath hot against Nathan's collarbone.

Nathan nodded, unable to speak.

Grant moved down slowly, mapping Nathan's body with his lips—the slight roundness of his chest, the tender flesh of his stomach, the curve where hip met thigh. When Grant's mouth finally enveloped him, Nathan's back arched off the bed. The wet heat was overwhelming, Grant's tongue moving with deliberate care.

"Christ," Nathan gasped, fingers tangling in Grant's hair.

Grant took his time, one hand splayed across Nathan's belly, the other gripping his thigh. He pulled back occasionally to catch his breath, to look up at Nathan's face transformed by pleasure. Each time their eyes met, something silent passed between them—a recognition that this wasn't just physical release but something deeper, forged in shared terror and tentative trust.

When Nathan trembled, close to the edge, he tugged Grant up.

Grant moved back up, his body covering Nathan's again. They rocked against each other, chest to chest, stomach to stomach, the friction building between them. Nathan's hands found Grant's back, tracing the indentation of his spine, the soft flesh at his sides.

"Look at me," Grant whispered as they moved together. His eyes held Nathan's, unwavering and intense. "I want to see you completely undone."

Nathan nodded, breathless with anticipation.

Grant reached for his bag beside the bed, retrieving what they needed. The pause was brief but charged with electricity. When he returned, his hands were gentle but certain as they caressed Nathan's thighs, pushing them apart with reverent care.

Grant positioned himself between his thighs. With careful movements, he lifted Nathan's legs, guiding them over his broad shoulders. The position exposed Nathan completely, making him feel both vulnerable and powerful as Grant's eyes darkened with unmistakable hunger.

Their bodies joined slowly, deliberately. Nathan's mouth fell open in a silent cry as Grant pressed forward, his expression transforming into something transcendent—longing and pleasure etched across his features in equal measure. His chest heaved with each careful movement, his nipples tightening into hard peaks that trembled with every thrust.

Grant was mesmerized by the sight beneath him—Nathan completely open, completely his. The subtle quiver of Nathan's chest with each movement, the way his eyes glazed with pleasure yet never left Grant's face. It was raw, honest connection unlike anything Grant had experienced before.

Nathan couldn't form words, could only grasp at Grant's forearms, his fingers digging into muscle as waves of sensation washed through him. Each thrust connected them more deeply than the physical—two men who'd faced death together now finding life in each other's bodies.

The intensity built between them, Grant's movements becoming more urgent. Nathan's back arched impossibly higher as Grant shifted, finding the perfect angle that made Nathan cry out unrestrained.

Grant's control finally broke. With a deep, guttural sound, he surrendered completely, his body shuddering as release claimed him. Nathan felt the climax crashing through him with stunning force.

Grant collapsed forward, careful not to crush Nathan beneath him. They lay tangled together, sweat-slicked and trembling, as their breathing gradually slowed. Grant pressed his forehead against Nathan's chest, listening to his thundering heartbeat.

Nathan felt Grant shift, trailing kisses back down his torso. His body, still tingling from their first climax, responded with renewed sensitivity.

"You don't have to—" Nathan started, but Grant silenced him with a look of such naked desire that the words died in his throat.

"I want to," Grant murmured against his inner thigh.

Nathan's breath caught as Grant's mouth descended once more, taking him in with exquisite deliberation. This time was different—unhurried, exploratory. Grant's tongue traced patterns that made Nathan's toes curl, his hands fisting in the sheets. The wet heat enveloped him completely, Grant's fingers splayed across his hips, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh.

"God," Nathan gasped, unable to look away from the sight of Grant's head moving between his thighs. Their eyes met—Grant's gaze intense even as his lips stretched around Nathan. The intimacy of that connection undid him.

Nathan's climax built with startling speed. His warning came as a choked whisper—"I'm going to—"—but Grant only increased his efforts, one hand sliding beneath Nathan to lift him slightly. When release finally tore through him, Grant stayed with him, swallowing around him, drawing out every last shudder until Nathan collapsed back, utterly spent.

Grant moved up beside him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. There was something almost reverent in his expression as he gathered Nathan against his chest.

Nathan listened to the steady rhythm of Grant’s breathing beneath him. He didn’t feel small. Or silly. Or mistaken for daring to need. Just tired, in a way that came from deep inside, from a place that had never quite rested.

 

He drifted into sleep.

 

Nathan woke hours later to the faint smell of coffee and rain. Pale light filtered through the blinds. The bed beside him was empty, but still warm.

 

For a moment, he wasn’t sure where he was. Then he remembered the plane—the scream, the plunge, the masks dangling like wilted flowers. The jolt of the landing gear scraping asphalt. His hand clamped around Grant’s arm.

 

His body ached in strange places. Not from sex, but from being held—like muscles unused to safety had unclenched in the night.

 

He wrapped the robe back around himself and padded into the kitchen.

 

Grant stood barefoot in the sun-silvered kitchen, pouring coffee into two mismatched mugs. His shirt was wrinkled. His hair slightly mussed. He looked like someone who belonged to mornings.

 

“You’re up,” he said, handing over a mug.

 

“Barely.”

 

They drank their coffee in silence, the kind that didn’t ask to be filled. Outside, the desert misted gently, softening the scrub and sand into something almost tender.

 

Nathan leaned against the counter beside Grant, their arms just brushing now and then. No declarations, no decisions. Just the faint hum of the refrigerator, the taste of cheap beans gone warm, and the quiet, staggering fact of still being here.

 

Grant refilled their mugs. Nathan smiled, tired and real.

 

They stood like that for a long time, watching the rain streak the windowpanes. Two men sharing a warm kitchen and a steady silence, quietly thankful for the night behind them and the morning they’d found themselves in.