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David, Hebrew for beloved.
There’s a reason Joe doesn’t use Webster’s first name.
He doesn’t give it much thought at first, honestly. It’s the army, old habits and necessity lending to them calling each other by last names. Orders barked at them by officers, their family name becoming as familiar to them as the parts of the M1 Garand. And he and Webster aren’t friends, so calling him by his last name is almost second nature.
Easier still is how effortlessly Joe slips into calling him Web. Your secret’s safe, Web. Gonna be good times, Web. And every time, there’s that slight flicker in Webster’s eyes, that tightening at the corners of the mouth that indicates he doesn’t necessarily care for the nickname, but he also isn’t going to say anything about it. His place back amongst the men of Easy tenuous at best, and he doesn’t want to jeopardize that. So Joe takes that as invitation to continue.
Once, one evening when Joe leans over Webster’s shoulder to see the letter home he’s writing, Joe smirks and calls him Kenyon. “Kenyon? Your middle name is Kenyon?” They’re alone, leaning against the wall outside the house where they’re billeted, and Joe is having a smoke while Web takes advantage of the remaining daylight. When Joe speaks, however, Web’s eyes take on an uncharacteristically dangerous glint as he turns to face Joe.
“Never call me that.”
Maybe it’s the unwavering tone of his voice, or the tense way Webster holds himself as if bracing for a fight, but Joe lets the matter drop as he takes a final drag from his cigarette. “All right, fuck, if it bothers you that much.”
Sometimes, when he wants his words to really cut deep, he borrows Cobb’s nickname for Webster. College boy, to drive home their different backgrounds. Harvard, though he drops that one once he finds out Webster hasn’t finished his degree yet. Web bears them all with a feigned patience, though Joe can tell it gets to him. Somehow, it doesn’t give Joe the satisfaction it used to.
Joe wonders if it has something to do with the familiar way Webster acts around him. Oh, sure, he’ll call him “Liebgott” to the officers, but otherwise Web almost exclusively calls him “Joe”. Like they’re friends (conversations about their planned futures in the back of a truck rolling through German countryside notwithstanding).
They aren’t close. Not like Nix and Winters or Randleman and Martin or Luz and Perconte. They don’t have that sort of easy familiarity, their encounters made up more of venomous words and snide glances. There’s a different quality to them, but it isn’t friendship.
Joe figures out what that quality is a few days after Landsberg, rage still thick in his veins. When Webster approaches him, Joe doesn’t know if his aim is to distract or console. He doesn’t wait long enough to find out, grabbing the lapels of Web’s ODs and dragging them together. The kiss is harsh, insistent, with Web giving back as good as he gets. A jolt goes up Joe’s back as it hits the side of a shed, Webster pinning him in place as his mouth moves lower, stubble scraping Joe’s jaw as Webster kisses at the scar on his neck.
“Fuck—”
Webster makes quick work of the buttons on Joe’s uniform, sinking to his knees. He breathes “Joe” into the tented front of Joe’s trousers, glancing back up. The open and unguarded look in those blue eyes makes something catch in Joe’s throat. There’s an intimacy and a reverence in his voice that Joe doesn’t want to put words to, and he’s reminded again of why he doesn’t use Webster’s first name.
Given their circumstances, the nature of their present positions, there is little time to revel in this experience.
“Shut up and suck me already.”
Webster does, though not without first rolling his eyes up at Joe. His mouth is soon occupied after that. Joe draws in a sharp breath, bracing himself against the wall of the shed as his hands tangle in Web’s hair.
On that occasion, “Christ, Web,” slips from his lips, but never, never Webster’s first name.
It isn’t until they’re driving down that mountain in Austria, the shot from Sisk’s rifle still echoing in his mind, that Joe realizes why Web insists on calling him by his first name. Webster had slipped up earlier, before they went into that cottage. Lieb, I fucking hate this, though he’d switched back to “Joe” a moment later. Joe’s hands clench the steering wheel, and Web is unmoving on the seat beside him. It never registers in his mind when the other guys call him “Lieb,” but this is different.
They both understand German. They both know what that nickname means.
Later, after he and other guys from Easy track down Grant’s shooter, after they pummel the shit out him, and after Speirs nearly puts a bullet through the guy’s head, Joe wonders if maybe Webster was right. Not whether the guy in that Austrian cabin was innocent, but whether maybe it wasn’t their call to make. Maybe they’ve all seen enough death to last a hundred lifetimes.
He can’t apologize to Webster—It’s not in either of their natures—but Joe finds himself at Web’s door nevertheless. It’s a truce of sorts, Joe holding up the bottle of gin and Web stepping back a moment later to let him in.
Nightime in Zell Am See, even in the summertime, is cool, but the liquor warms them. Webster complains with every other sip of gin that they ought to cut it with something, but he doesn’t get up. Joe’s beginning to feel a little fuzzy, but not enough to shake the events of the evening.
“I can’t believe it,” Joe says. “Why’d that have to happen to Chuck, so close to going home?”
Webster is silent beside him. There’s no answer that will satisfy, and they both know it. Joe finds himself drifting closer, inexorably, towards Web. When did he start to feel like something inevitable in Joe’s life? Joe takes another sip of gin, knowing it won’t have the answer.
“Why don’t you ever use my first name?” Web asks suddenly.
The tension in Joe’s body does more for his sobriety than a cold shower. It occurs to him, maybe, that Webster doesn’t know the meaning of his own name—but he dismisses that. Web is an academic who studies literature, of course he’d have looked it up at some point.
There’s no sarcastic or quippy reply at Joe’s disposal; nothing he can say that won’t irreparably damage whatever...this is. How to tell Web he’s afraid of revealing too much of his own feelings if he calls Web by his first name?
He remembers the mountain.
“Same reason you avoid my last name,” Joe says. He waits just long enough for the words to settle in through the haze of alcohol, for Web’s brow to furrow in confusion. He leaves before Web can formulate a reply.
They’re busy in the days to come, drills and thoughts of points keeping them occupied. Joe isn’t avoiding Webster, he’s just got too much on his mind to seek the guy out. That’s what he tells himself, anyway. And when he glances up to find blue eyes watching him, Joe looks the other way.
Joe finds himself on one of the piers by the lake, stealing a break for himself for the afternoon. Joe smokes, staring at his reflection in the clear water, when a ripple and splash distorts the image. It’s Webster, making his way through the water towards the pier.
“Hey, throw me that towel, would you?”
Joe glances around as he discards his cigarette butt, seeing the towel Web left. For a moment, he’s tempted to throw it so it ends up in the water. He holds the towel for a moment too long, just so Web knows he’d consider it, before tossing the towel into his outstretched hands.
“Thanks,” Web says wryly. He hoists himself onto the pier—a couple feet from Joe, but still close enough that Joe is acutely aware of the distance.
Webster is wearing his PT shorts as swim trunks. Joe smirks, remembering the letter Web wrote home asking for a new set.
“We’ll probably be sent to Japan before your Abercrombie swim trunks arrive,” Joe says. His tone is teasing, but not malicious. Somewhere around sharing gin with Webster, Joe lost the energy for animosity.
Web’s mouth twists up, but there’s a hard edge to it. “I doubt they’ll even send them. I asked my dad to send a sidearm, before D-Day. He didn’t think it was necessary.”
There’s a bitterness in Webster’s tone that Joe thinks has little to do with swim trunks or a pistol, and he finds himself wanting to lighten the mood. Away from thoughts of disappointing families or wars on other fronts or points or any of the shit they’re dealing with now. “How’s the water?” he asks.
Web looks up, eyes softening in surprise. They’re the same color blue as the lake, Joe realizes. “It’s nice,” Web says. “Cold, though. I prefer the ocean. Something about the salt water and the waves…”
Joe watches him, as Webster loses himself in talk of fishing trips off the coast of New England. He seems younger, somehow, as if the reminder of those simpler times is enough to bring part of him back to before the war. Joe smiles to himself, thinking he probably would have hated the person Webster was then—privileged and naive, with all the opportunities and none of the hardships the rest of them faced. Not that Webster is so different now, but he’s certainly grown from the guy who transferred to Easy after D-Day, or blundered in at Hagenau. Joe leans over, interrupting Web’s story as he presses their lips together.
Web lets out a brief startled noise, body going still, before returning the kiss. It is nothing like their kiss from weeks ago; this one is slower, more deliberate, as they learn each other’s rhythm. Webster tastes like sunshine and clear mountain air. His hair is wet where Joe’s fingers curl into it.
“Joe,” Web breathes into his mouth, and Joe can hear what Webster isn’t saying. What he’d rather be saying. And Joe wants to tell him fuck it, say what you want to say. Joe wants to hear it. Joe wants—
The distant sound of a drill whistle has them pulling apart. It’s daylight, anyone could see them. Joe rises to his feet, trying to ignore the reluctance in Webster’s eyes, and the pang of regret in his own gut. He heads back, only to learn some German general is surrendering, and they’ll need a translator on hand. He cleans himself up and puts on his better uniform.
A few days later they all learn the war is over, officially. Japan surrendered, and they’ll be going home.
Home for Joe is back to San Francisco, back to his part-time job with the cab company and his weekends cutting hair. He spends a couple days with his family, but the pressure to talk about the war is too much. By now, the people back home are starting to learn more about what the Germans did, and Joe can’t handle the questions in their eyes. He doesn’t want to revisit those memories of the camp. So he makes his excuses, and goes back to his tiny apartment.
A few of the guys from Easy call him. Christenson, Sisk, Luz. Joe talks for a few minutes when they do call, but he feels listless. A few months after getting back, Joe receives a letter from Webster.
Joe stares at the envelope for the longest time, looking at Webster’s neat handwriting. He wonders how Web got his address, if it was from someone at the army records office or if one of the other Easy guys gave it up. Probably Skinny. Joe realizes it doesn’t matter, and tears open the envelope.
Joe:
I’ve been holding off on writing this letter until I had something interesting to write about, but I’m afraid I have to disappoint on that account. After the frustrating ordeal that was the Army’s points system, I thought I would have been eager to be back home. Instead, I keep expecting someone to bark orders at me.
I have signed up for classes for Harvard’s spring semester, thinking I ought to finally finish my degree. If I am to be mocked for my level of education, let it at least be fully earned.
In spite of himself, Joe finds himself smiling. Trust Webster’s writing to be even more pretentious than his normal manner. Joe reads on, as Web describes the mundanities of his day-to-day life, all while managing to keep it from sounding too boring. The letter finishes with:
I hope you are doing well, and I trust the weather where you are is nicer than it is here. Autumn here reminds me too much of England. I once told my parents if I ever got out of the Army, I would spend the remainder of my life in Florida or California. Depending on how the winter treats me, I may have to revisit that idea come spring.
Best,
D. Webster
There’s a curious emotion in the pit of Joe’s stomach. Web didn’t write anything about what happened between them. Joe can’t tell if he’s upset or relieved about that. He considers writing a reply, even manages to find a notepad and a pen, but spends several minutes at a loss. He doesn’t have the same way with words that Web does. He’s never been one to compose paragraphs on the details of his life. In the end, he scribbles:
Web:
Don’t move to Florida. There are hurricanes.
He stares at what he's written for a long moment, then tears the sheet off the notepad and crumples it. He’s about to do the same to Webster’s letter, but something gives him pause. He smooths the creases and stows the letter in an empty shoebox.
Undeterred, it seems, by Joe’s lack of response, Web continues to send letters. Joe comes home every couple weeks to find a new one. They vary in length, from a couple paragraphs to several pages, filled with stories and anecdotes (I am sure, in San Francisco, you have your own share of public transportation woes, but if you ever find yourself on New York City’s subway…). Joe reads them all with a wry amusement, though whether he’s amused by the stories themselves or by Webster’s dramatics is another matter.
In December, Joe receives another letter:
Joe:
I had initially planned planned to write about my family’s holiday preparations. Looking at that now, I’m not sure why, but I tell you this because—given the nature of the season—I was reflecting on previous years. Namely, I recalled where I was a year ago, and where everyone else was at that time.
A year ago, I had just been discharged from the hospital and was being shuffled through replacement depots across England. At the time I considered it a miserable ordeal, though I realize now how inappropriate that descriptor would be. By the time I finally returned to Easy, I was so relieved to be back amongst the company I considered “home”, not considering that they had moved on from me. I realize now how that relief and joy to be back would seem insensitive to those who had survived the longest and most arduous battle of the war.
I do not bring this up now to remind you of what I’m sure are painful memories. I can’t say why I didn’t try to leave the hospital or the replacement depots early, why I didn’t find a way to make it back to Easy sooner. That clarity, I hope, will come with time, but I regret bitterly the time I lost with the company, and those to whom I never had the chance to say goodbye.
I did not intend to be maudlin, especially during the holidays. I am not even sure if you still read my letters, or if you did to begin with. But know I wish you a happy Hanukkah, and I hope the season brings you cheer.
Best wishes,
D. Webster
Joe’s hands are shaking as he finishes reading the letter. It’s not that he ever expected an apology from Webster, or even that one was needed. In looking back on his own feelings when Webster returned to the company, Joe realizes it’s more complicated than it seemed at the time. His own present feelings are more complicated than that. Foremost among those is the irrational thought that he’s glad Web missed it. By the end of Bastogne they were at less than half the strength of what they’d entered with. Those were terrible odds, and Joe doesn’t want to think of what could have happened had Webster been there with him.
And that—that is a frightening thought, and one which Joe doesn’t know how to process. It might have something to do with the fact that Webster still hasn’t written anything about what happened between them. And even if he did...would that make this any easier to process? Joe files the thought away, the same way he files all of Webster’s letters into a neat pile in the shoebox.
The weeks pass, and Webster’s letters are filled with griping about his classes. Reading between the lines, though, Joe thinks there’s more to Web’s discontent.
The professor has us reading All Quiet on the Western Front. I’ve read it before—it’s a good book. I wonder, however, if it is the best choice for this classroom. I am one of only a few students who enlisted in the war, the others who took part having gone through officer training. The vast majority are civilians. I find it difficult to keep my defensiveness in check when they raise issues with the text. I wonder, then, what people will think of my own memoir.
I was a poor soldier, I know that. I was a terrible shot, and even had they wanted to promote me there’s no way it would have stuck. But now it seems I make a worse civilian. There was always a part of me that did not quite fit with the other men of the company, and yet I feel more out of place here.
Joe can easily picture Web in a spirited debate with his classmates, recalling how Web argued with him and other men in the company. In the early days following his transfer to Easy, Web had seemed lofty, with his high education. It’s difficult now to envision what his classmates must be like if Web feels so out of place amongst them. Joe scans the final paragraph, standard well-wishing as Web’s letter winds down. It’s signed:
Your friend,
D. Webster.
Friend. It’s a far cry from the days following Hagenau, when Joe had used the distance between them as an excuse to call Web by his last name. After all, they weren’t friends then. Now? Now...Joe isn’t sure what they are. He isn’t even sure friend is the right word for it.
Joe tries to combat his growing discontent. He recalls telling Web his own plans after the war, but dismisses the idea of pursuing that course. Much as his mother would love for him to settle down with a nice Jewish girl, Joe can’t help but feel he said that more out of expectation than anything else, and that path no longer suits him. Some nights, he tries to go out to bars, the ones that don’t broadcast themselves with hidden corners for people who can’t find what they’re looking for elsewhere. He doesn’t stay long enough to hook up, but the temptation is there. Joe knows it isn’t what he really wants.
There are other letters. Webster writes about getting a haircut in Boston. It was getting long, and I’m afraid I can’t pull off the disaffected poet look as well as I’d like. It looks well enough now, but I’m sure you would have done a better job. Joe feels a curious fluttering in his stomach, reading that.
He goes about his days in the city. He remembers telling Web how he’d make a killing off all the sailors coming home, and finds himself driving along the piers by the waterfront. He was always aware of being close to the water—difficult not to be, in a city like this—but this is the first he really stopped to think about what that meant. Joe rolls down the window, breathing in the smell of salt air and remembering the way Web looked when he talked about the ocean, until he’s snapped from his reverie by the shout of “Taxi!”
That night, when Joe returns to his apartment there’s another letter from Webster.
Dear Joe:
Joe stares at the salutation for several long moments. It might mean nothing; it’s a standard enough greeting on letters. But Webster has never addressed a letter to him in that fashion before.
More often than not in my classes I find myself thinking how you would react to some of the people here. I have to check my temper around my peers far more than I used to. I would say I fear you have been a bad influence on me, but I am not so sure that is a bad thing.
It seems strange to look on parts of the war with fondness, considering all the horror that came of it, but truth be told, I would rather hear your defense of Flash Gordon as literature than the so-called debates I am subject to here. Oh, the curriculum here is challenging enough, but it does little to stimulate me. I feel stagnant, stalled. I wish I could lay that blame solely on those around me, but it would be a disservice to myself to deny that I’ve changed. My eyes are wider, perhaps. For that, at least, I suppose I could thank you.
There’s a fragment of a sentence after that, but it’s been scribbled over beyond recognition. Joe holds the page at an angle, letting out a frustrated noise as he tries to determine what Webster began to write. It’s no use. There are a few additional pleasantries that sound almost stilted compared to the opening paragraph, but Joe’s eye catches on the signature.
Yours,
David
Joe can almost feel his center of gravity shifting, the longer he stares at the end of the letter. His heart hammers in his chest as he traces the ink lines with his forefinger. Yours. Yours, David. Joe wishes he knew what had gone through Webster's head as he wrote that letter. He wishes he knew what Web had started to write before apparently changing his mind. Bringing up what happened between them, perhaps? But whatever it was, he'd thought better of it, and meanwhile this thing—this frightening, confusing thing—between them remained unacknowledged.
Joe wonders what it is that's held him back. His own attempts to understand his place in the war, his desire to leave what he saw behind him while at the same time seeking something. He thinks about long weeks trying to distract himself from his thoughts, and the shoebox filled with letters that keep bringing him back. He thinks about kissing Web by the lake, the way Web had uttered his name as if trying to impart more meaning in it.
He thinks about Web's eyes, blue as that mountain lake and filled with reluctance as Joe pulled away.
"Fuck," Joe mutters.
Joe has no stationary, but he finds a notepad by his phone. It takes him three tries to locate a working pen.
I drove by the ocean today. It reminded me of you. The weather is great here, you should visit sometime.
-Joe
Joe leaves it at that. There's more he could say, more he wants to communicate, but he wouldn't know how to begin.
Joe loses track of when he sends the letter. He won’t be one of those people who counts the days waiting for a reply. So it’s a surprise to him when he comes back from his cab shift to find Webster outside his apartment, leaning against a suitcase. Joe has a wild moment of wondering how Webster knew where to find him, before he remembers the address on his letters would be a pretty good indication.
“Joe.” Webster has the good sense to sound apologetic as he scrambles to his feet. “Sorry, I—I sent a letter, but it might not have gotten here yet. And, well...it’s my spring break. I didn’t want to miss the chance to…” He trails off.
Web’s fumbling is enough for Joe to recover from his stunned silence. “How long have you been here?”
“Plane landed about two hours ago. I’ve been outside your door about 30 minutes.”
This close, Joe can’t help but think Web seems taller. Which is unlikely, but it’s a safer train of thought than all the other things running through his mind. He swallows, stepping around Web to pull out his keys.
“Well, come on in, then.”
“I would have called first,” Webster says as he carries his suitcase inside. “But I don’t have your phone number, and I wasn’t sure if I should bother Skinny again.”
That answered the question of how he had gotten Joe’s address in the first place. “It’s fine, Web,” Joe says, though that’s far from the truth. His mind is still processing Web being here, in his living room, having flown all the way from the east coast just to see him. He assumes thats why, at least. Joe doubts if his hastily scribbled lines about the ocean are Web’s real reason for being here.
“You want something to drink?” Joe asks, because despite evidence to the contrary his mother raised him to be polite, and Webster’s been outside his apartment for half an hour.
“Sure. Beer, if you have it. Otherwise water is fine.”
Joe goes to the kitchen and pulls out two bottles. He uncaps them, passing one to Web. Joe tips back the neck of his own bottle, taking a long pull from it as he tries to gather his thoughts. The cold beer does little to ease his nerves, but it allows him to take his eyes off Web for a moment, to not think about how near he is. When Joe lowers the bottle and rests it on the counter, Web is staring at him with something Joe can’t define.
“You look goo—well, Joe. You look well.”
Joe smirks, both at the slip and because he knows it’s a lie. He looks like shit. Webster, though. He looks amazing, if a little tired from his flight. Ink-dark hair slightly longer than Joe remembers it, and tousled. A shadow of stubble on his jaw. Lips slightly parted because the guy can never keep his mouth shut. And his eyes—
“Yeah, same to you,” Joe says.
As unexpected as this is, Web showing up almost out of the blue, there’s a part of it that isn’t. This feels inevitable, like those days following Hagenau before they crashed together for the first time. It shouldn’t surprise Joe, then, when Web sets down his beer, crosses the distance between them, and kisses him.
It’s frenzied and a little awkward, stubble scraping Joe’s cheek as Webster’s mouth opens against his—but then Web’s pace slows down the smallest degree, his hands come up to cup Joe’s face, and it’s perfect, it’s everything Joe has been trying not to think about, everything he wants, except—
“Wait—wait,” Joe says, pulling back as he pushes Web away.
Web’s face looks stricken with no small amount of panic, and Joe hurries to continue. “You’ve been in my apartment less than two minutes and you just flew several thousand miles and—and you never said anything about this!”
Webster looks confused, trying and failing to hide the hurt in his eyes. And Joe hates seeing that, but his heart is racing and he’s trying to understand.
“You got my letters, didn’t you? I thought my—my hopes were apparent.”
“How was I supposed to know for sure when you never wrote about what happened?” Joe countered.
Web’s eyes take on a hard glint, hurt mingling with frustration. “Well, how was I supposed to know how you felt when you never wrote me at all? You don’t have a leg to stand on here. For all I knew you had trashed them without even opening—”
He trails off as Joe paces from the room, over to the shelf where the shoebox rests. Joe pulls it down, opening the box to reveal all of Web’s letters, everything he wrote Joe over the course of six months.
“I kept them, okay? I kept them, and I read every single one of them. They meant—” Here Joe hesitates, reluctant to reveal that much. But if they’re being honest with each other… “They meant a lot. To me.”
Webster is stunned silent, the sight of all his letters seeming to bring him up short as he stares, mouth open.
“But you—you never replied,” he ventures, more a question this time than an accusation.
“I knew that whatever I wrote, it would never measure up to your writing,” Joe says, not meeting Webster’s eyes. He doesn’t like to admit his own shortcomings. “The words come so easily to you.”
When Webster speaks, his voice is soft. “You think any of that was easy for me? Joe...the reason I didn’t write about what happened—and believe me, I wanted to—is because when it matters, really matters...I can’t find the words either.”
Joe looks up, meeting Web’s eyes as the impact of what he’s saying sinks in. Web’s brow is furrowed, anxiety mingling with longing and something else. Something Joe recognizes because it’s the same ache he’s felt for months. And Joe realizes the words aren’t necessary. They arrived on the same page without realizing it, maybe as far back as Austria.
“Okay,” Joe says. “Okay. I’m done waiting.”
Realization crosses Webster’s face in a flicker, and then he’s moving towards Joe to continue the kiss he started. Maybe it’s the amount of time since they last saw each other, or maybe it’s because all the other times they did this there was always the possibility of discovery, but the kiss quickly becomes heated. Web’s hand cups Joe’s neck, his thumb tracing the tendons, as Joe clutches at the front of Web’s shirt.
“Joe—can we—?” Web begins, breaking off into a gasp as Joe’s hands push beneath the hem of his shirt, teasing at the waistline of his pants.
“What’s that, Web?” Joe asks, enjoying the way Webster’s mind completely derails as Joe’s fingers card through the hair on his abdomen. Joe smirks. “Use your words.”
Any other time a remark like that might have earned him a withering glare. Now, however, Webster’s face has an urgency to it that makes Joe’s pulse beat rapidly. “Can we move this someplace less...vertical?”
“Fuck yes.”
Webster’s shirt is the first casualty, abandoned in the hallway as Joe urges him toward the bedroom. If they’re doing this, he wants to do it in a bed this time. He wants them naked this time—too many occasions catching glimpses of what lay beneath those uniform layers but never in the context that he wanted. To that end, Joe’s shirt soon follows. He sets on the zipper of Web’s pants once they’re in the bedroom, sliding hands around to the curve of Web’s ass as Joe kisses the column of his throat.
Webster surges against him, pushing Joe back onto the bed. They fall together in a tangle of limbs, grappling and groping at each other, struggling to remove each others’ pants even as they continue kissing. Now that they finally seem to be in a place of mutual understanding with one another, they’re reluctant to separate, as if it might break that accord.
Finally—finally—they manage to kick the last of their remaining clothes off the bed. Finally Joe can feel Web hard against his thigh, the reality of it overwhelming. He thinks of their first encounter—hidden behind that shed, fast and frantic and only skimming the surface of what he felt—and Joe realizes in this moment he wants more.
“I want you to fuck me,” Joe says.
Webster has to bury his face in Joe’s shoulder to muffle his groan. When he lifts his head again, his pupils are dark with want. “I don’t—I don’t have any—”
“I do,” Joe interrupts, anticipating Web’s meaning. “Nightstand.”
Web stares at him a moment, until Joe feels himself begin to flush. He doesn’t know how to talk about the bars he went to, the small bottle he’d purchased but never used because the people there weren’t who he was looking for. He doesn’t know how to explain how he’d kept the bottle anyway, because part of him couldn’t help hoping he might see Web again.
Webster holds his gaze a moment longer, before leaning down to kiss Joe again—deeply, with an intensity bordering on profound. He sits up, leaning over to reach for the nightstand drawer while Joe catches his breath. He wants this, no denying that, but he’s filled with a nervousness that has nothing to do with the mechanics of what is about to happen.
“Joe?”
Joe drags his eyes up to meet Webster’s again. He wonders how Web can impart so much meaning into that simple utterance of his name. Web’s fingers are slick with the contents of the bottle, but he’s holding back, waiting to make sure Joe is okay with this.
Joe lets his expression soften into what he hopes is reassurance. “Well, get on with it,” he teases. “I won’t beg.”
“Fuck you,” Webster says, a smile tugging the corners of his mouth.
“That’s the idea.”
Joe lets out a soft hiss as the first finger presses into him. His hands scrabble for purchase on the sheets, hips canting up for a better angle as Web thrusts his finger deeper. “Fuck, yeah.”
Encouraged, Web draws his finger back before thrusting it in again. His other hand is braced on the bed, torso curved over Joe as he stares down, awed, at the place where his finger disappears into Joe's body.
Joe whines high in his throat as the finger inside him twists. His dick curves up, leaking against his navel. Joe reaches for it, but Web lightly slaps his hand away, ducking down to lap at the head as he thrusts a second finger in.
"Ohhhh, fu—" Joe's curse breaks off into a gasp. He isn't sure whether to push forward into Web's mouth or bear down on his fingers. Web makes that decision for him, sucking Joe's cock deeper as his fingers pull back, push back in.
Joe wants to touch Webster's hair, to urge him on—but with his hands currently clenched tight in the sheets, he doesn't trust himself not to cause harm. His thighs tremble, body tensing under the assailment to his senses. He's close, he's so close—
Webster's mouth is gone, fingers disappearing a moment later. Joe is about to voice his disappointment, when hands grip his hips, lifting him up until—
"Yes," he groans, releasing the sheets beneath him to grapple at Web, pulling him closer, deeper. Web goes willingly, thrusting his hips as he presses his torso closer to Joe's. They kiss, brief and clumsy, before Web breaks away to begin thrusting in earnest.
Joe holds on, his entire body rocking with it as he clings to Web. His cock is trapped between them, sweat and spit and precome creating a delicious friction against Web's abdomen. More than any of that, however, Joe is caught by the intensity in Web's eyes.
Joe can’t pinpoint the moment everything changed. He's avoided this for longer than he'd care to admit, the reasons all seeming insignificant now in the face of this. There is only David Webster, pushing into him and filling him, under Joe’s skin as surely as he’s ever been.
"David," Joe pants, clutching at him as if it can bring them closer. "David."
Webster shudders above him, movements becoming erratic. He reaches for Joe’s cock, tugging at over-sensitized skin once, twice, until Joe is coming. Web’s head drops forward as his body tenses, chasing Joe’s orgasm with his own.
It takes Joe a few moments to come back to himself. When he does, Web is beside him, murmuring into the skin of his neck. It takes a few seconds longer for Joe to realize it’s his name—the nickname Web had avoided until now.
“Lieb. Lieb.”
They fall asleep like that, half-tangled in each other as though the other might drift away.
When Joe wakes, he traces half-remembered Hebrew script on Webster’s bare stomach until it rouses him.
“What’s that?”
Joe hesitates, but then says, “It’s your name.”
Web angles his face to get a better look at the shapes Joe’s fingers mark out on his skin. “What does it mean?”
“You know what it means.”
“What if I want to hear you say it?”
Joe looks up, arching an eyebrow at Web. “Oh, is that how it’s going to be? Mister ‘I can’t find the words’?”
Web grins, tugging Joe against him and rolling them so Web is on top. “You want me to tell you how I feel?” He mouths at Joe’s collarbone, voice pitched low as he says, “Meine lieber...wenn du wüsstest, wie sehr ich dich liebe.”
Joe’s breath hitches at the significance in those words, his own heart pounding—but if Web can say it, then he won’t be outdone. He tugs Web closer, until he’s murmuring the meaning of David into the shell of Webster’s ear, like an invocation.