Dreaming of You: M/M Gay Romance Read online

  Most disturbingly, there are several “sightings” posts- pictures of Dr. Eames, obviously snapped from people’s phones without his knowledge, highly reminiscent of paparazzi photos. There’s one of him having lunch with another professor at an outdoor café in Amherst; one of him walking across campus towards the bookstore, drinking a Slurpee; one of him doing lat pulls at the fitness center, which Phil lingers over for several embarrassing minutes. And there’s one of him with a girl, the girl whose name seems to come up most frequently in the sex speculation posts, a grad student named Angie. They’re waiting in line together at Bruegger’s Bagels, both laughing. The photo quality is pretty bad, but Phil can tell that she’s cute, tiny and even younger looking than Phil in her sweatshirt and sneakers. The caption says “So totally doing it”, which seems like quite a lot to extrapolate from a picture taken on somebody’s iPhone at a bagel shop.

  There are a bunch of comments on the photo, a few supportive "You go, girl!" type remarks and a whole lot of hateful, misogynistic bullshit. None of the anger about the supposed affair is directed at Dr. Eames. Nobody seems to care that if any of this is true then the object of their lust is probably a giant creep.

  Phil snaps his laptop shut, feeling queasy and a little bit sad.

  Time to get back to work.

  ********

  Phil’s finished by Monday evening and there’s no reason to be nervous, no reason he shouldn’t get a good night sleep after being up for four days straight, but he is and he doesn’t.

  He’s bleary and exhausted, his stomach in knots by the time he gets to class Tuesday afternoon. Dr. Eames’ lecture is about goddamn fucking Freud and Phil can barely focus on what’s being said, not even enough to be annoyed by it. Every scrap of his dwindling concentration is spent going over the presentation in his head, trying to make sure he remembers everything so he doesn’t have to use his index cards.

  No one’s done a student presentation yet and there wasn't much about them in the syllabus, so Phil didn’t have a whole lot to go on when he was planning all of this out. Normally, in an undergrad class, he would've emailed the professor to ask for further clarification, but that was out of the question in this case. No way was he going to ask Dr. Eames for help.

  He knows they're supposed to take place during the second half of class, after the lecture, which gives Phil approximately 45 minutes. He started with enough material to fill at least two hours, but managed to condense it to an hour or so, leaving room for questions and a bit of discussion. In Phil’s experience it’s always better to be over-prepared. He figured he’d decide where to shave it when the time came, but now he’s wondering if he’s got the mental faculties necessary to make that call.

  By the time Dr. Eames is finished babbling about bananas and tunnels and flagpoles Phil has worked up one last burst of adrenaline, hopefully enough to carry him through to the end of class. When Dr. Eames wheels in a TV cart instead of introducing his presentation, Phil is confused. He’s going to show a movie? Now?

  The seat across from Phil is empty and Dr. Eames flops into it after starting up the DVD, some random documentary about lucid dreaming. Phil tries to get his attention, to catch his eye and maybe get some kind of indication of what the hell is going on, but Dr. Eames seems immediately engrossed in the film. He refuses to spare a glance in Phil’s direction.

  Phil must’ve gotten the day wrong. Unless this is the shortest movie in the world, Dr. Eames must’ve meant for him to do this on Thursday. Or he forgot all about it. Either way, Phil’s off the hook for today.

  Just in case he’s wrong he spends the first ten minutes of the film mentally condensing his presentation even further, to a half an hour and then twenty minutes, but eventually he lets himself relax. Finally.

  About twenty minutes in he’s so relaxed he’s afraid he might fall asleep. He feels his eyelids drooping and his limbs loosening up. Instead of planning his presentation, he starts to plan his next nap. It’s gonna be awesome.

  The movie turns out to be about a half hour long and when it’s over, Phil expects Dr. Eames to let them go a little early. Everyone expects that. People start packing up their laptops and notebooks and shuffling around, but Dr. Eames doesn’t let them go. He turns on the lights and tells them that they’re going to hear from their resident expert in the physical sciences now. He directs everyone's attention to Phil, then sits back down and looks at him with an unbelievably insufferable smirk. Son of a bitch.

  There’s a horrible moment of gut-clenching panic where Phil’s mind goes completely blank. Thankfully it passes and, as he stares across the table at Dr. Eames’ stupid smug expression, turns quickly to rage. Ten minutes. He’s got ten fucking minutes and that bastard did this on purpose.

  Fine then, challenge accepted. He scraps the index cards, the diagrams and charts he spent hours perfecting, the question and answer section and pretty much everything else and just stands up and talks. Summarizing a dense, technical, thousand page book in a ten minute overview is a ridiculously impossible task, but Phil does the best he can manage. He doesn't have a choice.

  His voice is hoarse and unsteady, his mind a jumbled mess as he struggles to find the right words. Other than Dr. Eames, no one is listening to him. He can sense the boredom and impatience, can see people doodling and fidgeting in his peripheral vision. Some girl is actually texting, which is the one and only thing Dr. Eames seems to be a hardass about. He handed them all a three page policy about cell phones and other portable electronics on the very first day, but he doesn't seem to notice the breach of protocol. Doesn't seem to notice anything but Phil.

  By the end of it he’s shaky and exhausted and he wants to scream or punch Dr. Eames in the face, but he just stands there, putting away his useless notes as the other students gratefully flee the room. Dr. Eames sits and continues to watch him, his arms folded across his chest and his eyebrow quirked in something like amusement.

  “That was very good,” he says, when they really are alone.

  “It was ten minutes!” Phil exclaims angrily, shoving the stupid, horrible Biology of Sleep and Dreaming into his satchel. He's never spoken to a teacher like this, but he can’t remember ever being this pissed at a teacher before. Not in his whole life.

  “I know,” Dr. Eames says. “It was a very impressive ten minutes.”

  “I wasted my whole weekend on this!” Phil says, and he knows he’s being a whiny little brat. He knows, but he hasn’t slept in days and he feels like he’s about to throw up and Dr. Eames seems to think it’s fucking hilarious.

  “Oh it was hardly a waste, Phil. It was an extremely positive contribution to the class.”

  “You said ‘student led discussion’. There was no discussion. There was no time for a discussion!”

  “I thought you discussed it very well,” Dr. Eames says. Phil can not even believe this shit. He always thought professors would be above making fun of their students, but apparently he was grossly misguided.

  “You know most students are relieved when they don’t have to talk for very long,” Dr. Eames says.

  “Yeah well I’m not most students."

  “Yes, I can see that.” Dr. Eames smiles at him, almost fondly. Maybe condescendingly, Phil can’t tell which. “Listen, have you been to our sleep lab?”

  The words Sleep with Doctor Eames flash through Phil’s mind at the mention of that and he feels himself blushing stupidly. “Have I... what? No.”

  “I could really use someone like you over there,” Dr. Eames tells him.

  “Use... for what? As a guinea pig?”

  “Of course not, don‘t be silly,” Dr. Eames says. “I meant as an assistant. You seem to have an excellent grasp of the science behind all this stuff, in spite of your obvious disdain for the more esoteric aspects.”

  It occurs to Phil suddenly that Dr. Eames might not be mocking him after all. Maybe he was actually impressed. Maybe he’s giving Phil a genuine compliment. He’s always been terrible at recognizing those.
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  “Um, yeah, thanks,” he says, scratching the back of his neck, thrown for yet another loop.

  Doctor Eames gets up and starts digging through his briefcase at the front of the room. He finds a plastic keycard and hands it to Phil.

  “You should come check it out,” he tells him. “I can give you three credits if you’ll work for me this term.”

  “I dunno,” Phil says, turning the card over in his hand, wondering how many other students he’s offered this to, a feeling of pride swelling uncomfortably in his chest. “I’m uh, I’m kind of busy.”

  “Yes, of course you are,” Dr. Eames says. “Just think it over. Stop by any time. I think you may find it surprisingly interesting.”

  Chapter 2

  The sleep lab is, it turns out, surprisingly, incredibly interesting. For one thing, it bears a startling resemblance to the bridge of the Starship Enterprise from the original Star Trek TV series.

  Some people from Phil’s class are there, seemingly just hanging around. The girl who talked about her post-apocalyptic nightmares the first day of class- Phil’s pretty sure her name is Karen- is sitting where Chekov should be, filing her nails. The girl from the Facebook page, Angie, is next to her, sitting cross legged in Sulu’s chair in a flannel nightshirt covered with cartoon sheep. Lifeguard boy is sitting in Uhura’s seat and, alarmingly, appears to be wearing her Starfleet uniform.

  Another girl from the class is lying on the floor between the view screen and Sulu and Chekov’s controls. She’s got wires taped to her head and appears to be asleep. On the view screen, random images flash intermittently. A blooming flower. An erupting volcano. A decapitated corpse. Phil knows instinctively that these are images from the girl’s head, from her dreams.

  And, of course, there‘s Dr. Eames in the center of it all, slumped in the raised captain’s seat in his trusty tweed jacket and pleated pants.

  Phil lurks behind him, uncertain and unnoticed.

  He clears his throat and asks, “What would you like me to do, Dr. Eames?”

  “Eames,” Dr. Eames says. “It’s just Eames, all right?” He crooks his fingers, beckoning Phil forward and when he’s standing where Dr. Eames- Eames, where Eames can see him, he feels even more unsure. Why did he come here? He can’t remember.

  “Take off your clothes,” Eames says, and for some reason that seems like the right answer. Everyone’s looking at him now, but he does it, peels off his clothing slowly and deliberately and without concern. He takes off everything but his socks. He can tell the floor is cold.

  It should be hellishly awkward, standing here in front of all these people, wearing nothing but a pair of socks. It should be nightmarish. But he feels okay. He feels good. Seems like a pretty easy way to earn three extra credits.

  Eames looks him over appraisingly, his eyes giving nothing away.

  “Would you like to kiss me, Phil?” he asks.

  “Yes,“ Phil answers without thinking, looking at Eames’ mouth.

  “Hm, how would you do it, I wonder,” Eames says, running his palm up and down over his thigh, tilting his head at Phil. “Would you relax right away? Give yourself over to me? Or would you kiss me hard and brittle? Would you be angry? Or needy? What do you think, Phil?”

  “He’s a cold fish,” Lifeguard-Uhura boy says, before Phil can even begin to formulate an answer.

  “Fuck off, at least I’m not wearing a dress,” Phil snaps and flips him the middle finger. “By the way, I can see your testicles.”

  Lifeguard-Uhura tugs at the bottom of his skirt and crosses his legs, which does nothing to alleviate the problem. Phil wrinkles his nose pointedly and looks back at Eames.

  “This is how I kiss him,” Angie says. She gets out of her seat and walks up the platform to Eames, walks in a circle around his chair, trailing her fingers along the back. Eames grabs her wrist and she smiles and touches his cheek. Then she leans in and kisses him, open mouthed and a little bit lewd. He puts his huge hands on her tiny waist- he‘s so fucking huge- and Phil starts to get a goddamn erection. There’s no way to hide it and it’s sort of embarrassing, but far worse than that is the sickening knot of jealousy tightening in his chest.

  He wants to do something- anything to make it stop- but it seems to go on forever and he‘s frozen in place, forced to watch helplessly.

  The dreaming girl on the floor wakes up suddenly, turning the images on the view screen to static. “It’s my turn now,” she says, and starts moving towards Eames. Angie steps away from him finally, and Phil cuts in front of the other girl in a state of near-panic.

  “No!” he says. “It’s my turn. I‘m the one he wanted in the first place.”

  Eames seems to agree because he takes Phil’s hand and tugs and somehow Phil winds up on top of him, straddling his lap, his knees crushed between Eames’ thighs and the sides of his chair.

  Phil braces his hands on Eames’ shoulders to balance himself, then squeezes.

  Eames runs his hands down Phil’s naked back, cups his ass and pulls him closer. He’s hard too, Phil can feel it under his clothes. He circles his hips then bites his lip to keep from moaning out loud at the feeling.

  “Are you afraid?” Eames asks him in a low, quiet voice. Their lips are close together, close enough for kissing, but Phil still hasn’t done it.

  He shakes his head, then shrugs. “A little bit. Maybe.”

  “Tell me what you’re afraid of,” Eames says. He rubs his hand in soothing circles over the small of Phil’s back, then all the way up to his neck. “Tell me, it’s all right.”

  “Wanting things,” Phil blurts out. “Needing them.”

  Going mad, he thinks, but doesn’t say. He can’t talk about that. Not even here.

  “I need-”

  “What do you need?” Eames whispers against his lips and Phil kisses him then, not angry or needy but a soft press against his mouth, tentative. Eames makes a small noise in his throat and digs his fingers into the back of Phil’s neck. It’s all the encouragement Phil needs to deepen the kiss, grind down against Eames‘ cock again, then quickly again.

  Eames pushes his tongue into Phil’s mouth and starts circling it around, thrusting and licking at him. His hands seem to be everywhere at once, and Phil keeps rocking against him, pressing every part of himself as close to Eames as he can get. It feels amazing. It feels safe and dangerous, achingly sweet, but absolutely fucking filthy all at once and he wants it all, he wants all of Eames and more.

  Eames grabs a chunk of Phil’s hair, pulls his head back and starts sucking at his neck and Phil whimpers and bucks hard against him, clutching at the lapels of his jacket.

  “That’s it,” Eames murmurs into his ear. “That’s my good boy.”

  Then it’s happening, too fast, too much. He’s coming so hard he’s crying out and shaking from it, coming all over Eames’ ugly brown pants and silky shirt...

  Phil wakes with a start, gasping into his pillow, his hips jerking convulsively against the mattress. He doesn’t know what time it is, or even what day it is, but it’s dark outside which means he’s slept through his statistics class and possibly chem lab as well. His head hurts and his sheets are damp and sticky and he remembers, he remembers everything. His first wet dream since he was 13, and the first dream he’s been able to remember in years that wasn’t about his mom.

  Dr. Eames told them that they could write anything in their dream journals, that they wouldn’t be judged or censored in any way, but he also advised them to keep a separate, private journal for things they didn’t feel comfortable sharing with anyone else. Phil dutifully purchased two moleskin notebooks and set them aside as dream journals, but they both remain incriminatingly blank.

  He could write about this in the private journal, but what would be the point? It doesn’t exactly take a dream expert, or even a shrink, to figure out what it means. A monkey could probably tell him, it’s so fucking obvious.

  Phil groans and pulls the covers over his head.

  The best thing
to do would be to try and forget about it the way he forgets almost all of his dreams, and especially forget the twinge of disappointment he felt when he woke up and realized it wasn't real, but instead he begins replaying it in his mind, leaving out the stupid parts and the other people. He’s hard again almost immediately.

  Then he imagines writing about it in the journal for Dr. Eames, showing it to him just to see what he’d say. What would he think of it, Phil wonders. What would he do?

  It’s impossible of course, impossible and humiliating and Dr. Eames has probably received and ignored hundreds of journal entries with similar content. Phil certainly doesn't need to add himself to the pile of pathetic worshippers.

  But he lets himself think about it, for now. For now he's going to stay in bed, imagining whatever the hell he wants and jerking himself raw so that his dick is physically incapable of getting an erection when he visits the sleep lab for real. He can only hope these ridiculous fantasies are out of his system by the time he sees Dr. Eames again.

  Chapter 3

  Phil finally decides to have a look at the real sleep lab during a bout of insomnia late one Sunday night. He knows most of the studies are done during the week so he figures the place will be empty, which is probably for the best. He doesn’t particularly want to run into Dr. Eames or any of his little protégés- he just wants to get a look at the equipment and see if there’s anything remotely interesting going on there.

  He doesn’t bother dressing to impress, just throws on a pair of sweatpants and an old T-shirt and drives over to the campus.

  He’s actually a little surprised to get there and find the place is not, in reality, a sci-fi, psycho-sexual den of iniquity. Turns out it’s just a regular science lab in Tobin Hall, on the same floor with all the other psych labs, and it seems to be as empty as he expected. That is until a giant, terrifying dog comes running out of nowhere and knocks Phil onto his ass.

  Phil is not afraid of dogs, per se, but he’s not exactly used to them either. He was never allowed to have pets growing up, never really figured out what to do with animals, and this dog looks like some kind of satanic Pitbull/Rottweiller hybrid from hell, so he sort of expects to die when the thing jumps on top of him. He doesn’t die, though. Just winds up with a face full of dog drool.