“I don’t want this to just … vanish, y’know what I mean? And I learned quickly, I really learned, the first guys in college I dated—if I can even call them dates—the quicker the fire burns, the faster it goes out, and this is burningawfullyfast—”
“Hey, I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
He catches his breath, staring at me for a while, out of words.
It’s killing me, to resist him any further, to practice any more restraint. But maybe that’s what he’s begging me to do, even ifhis eyes and his body and his hands are telling me something totally different. He wants me to be the bigger guy. To put on the brakes. To assure him in all the ways our horny bodies can’t.
“How about …”Jesus, this is killin’ me. “How about we … go and get settled on the beds?Separatebeds. See? Two queens. And we can order room service … unless it’s closed for the night. We could eat microwave popcorn, right over there, couple of bags. Put the TV on. And just … hang out. All of our clothes on.”
He’s clenching his jaw. The restraint is killing him, too.
Now I’m wondering if I read it wrong and he actually wanted the opposite—for me to reassure himwhiletaking his clothes off, to kiss him tenderly on his exposed body, to treasure him as I lay him on the bed, to give him one hell of an experience he and his body will never forget …
“That sounds perfect,” he decides, voice slightly choked.
Now is he lying? Or being serious? “Uh … yeah?” I ask, like a test. “Is … Is that what you want?”
“I want lots of things,” he says, again slightly choked. “But … I think I’d like that. Us. Just hanging out.” His eyes drop to my lips. Then my chest. “That … sounds perfect.”
He’s still in his head.
I’m still in my feels.
You really aren’t makin’ this easy, Timothy.
In a few minutes, we end up doing just that: chilling on our own beds, TV on something neither of us are paying attention to. After a few minutes, Timothy’s stomach growls, and we both look at each other—then laugh. I hop off the bed to make that popcorn, say something witty like, “Free or not, let’s try to keep these ones from spillin’ all over the floor.” He snorts at that and says it was totally my fault the tub spilled in the theater. The next minute, we both have our own bag, chomping down on an airy tasteless snack notorious for doing absolutely fuck-all about appetite. Then he has a thought and excuses himself from theroom, only to come back a handful of minutes later with a can of soda, a bottle of Gatorade, and two packages of Oreos lumped in his arms. He dumps them on the end of my bed with a cute, “Didn’t know what you drink, but definitely knew your snack of choice,” winks at me, and I guess that becomes his excuse for abandoning his own bed and sitting next to me on mine, chomping down on Oreos.
Spending time with Timothy is effortless.
He says something simple. I pick it right up. Then I make fun of whatever’s on TV. His laughter comes easy. He says we probably reek from the bowling alley and movie theater and just haven’t noticed because we smell the same. I say something weirdly cute about liking how we smell the same, like it’s meaningful, and he finds that hilarious and laughs way too hard.
In no time, we’ve lost all the nerves and discover something disturbingly natural between us that I haven’t found in anyone my whole life. He’s like an old friend. And I don’t have old friends.
Don’t have many new ones, either, I guess.
He’s a magical person who dropped into my life and made me aware of all these empty pits inside me. Then he fills them, every last one, until I’m so complete, I don’t know how I survived before.
After he returns from a quick trip to the bathroom (since the Dr. Pepper ran straight through him, in his words) he plops back onto the bed right next to me, and I get the full story behind his best friend AJ and the girl whose name is a city in France. So this AJ dude totally hijacked the Vegas-and-desert-and-cave-exploring adventure that Timothy had carefully planned for nearly a year—just to chase after his college crush he thinks he’ll marry someday. “It’s romantic, I guess,” he decides to call it. “It sure makes for a good story they can tell their pretty kids someday. They’re gonna make pretty kids,” he quickly adds,“and I better be the godparent, or so help me.” He then plucks an Oreo out of the package in my lap and pops it into his mouth whole.
We’re shoulder-to-shoulder on my bed, backs against the soft headboard, faces close. “You’re a forgiving friend,” I point out.
He thinks it over while he chews. After swallowing, he shrugs. “If everythinghadgone to plan, I wouldn’t have met you. I’d have screamed alongside AJ out in that audience watching Chase Holt, and right about now, I’d be in a Vegas hotel room instead of this one, with AJ and I drooling over all the sweet merch we snatched at M&M’s World or The LEGO Store. I believe in thesacredpower of lucky socks,” he informs me importantly, “andverymuch looked forward to getting a pair of M&M ones … but fate had other plans.” He peers at me. “I’m happy my plans got fucked up.”
I smile. “I know that trip meant a heck of a lot to you. I’m … pretty touched you findthisworth losing that.”
“More than worth it.”
After a few minutes of zoning out to the TV, I feel him settle against my side more intentionally, his leg nuzzling mine. Inspired by something I can only guess at, he starts (sleepily) telling me about different people he grew up with in Spruce. His boss and how he met his husband, then adopted two kids. The husband’s spitfire mother who became mayor a couple years ago. I notice he doesn’t mention much about his own family, and I don’t pry; I’m happy to learn whatever he wants to tell, keeping my happy ears open. At one point in his storytelling, I swallow a yawn and stretch my arms, and while continuing to talk without missing a beat, he slides his head onto my chest just as my arm comes down. And just like that, I’m cuddling him against my side.
It was so natural, I barely noticed it happen.
And now it’s all I notice.
How alarmingly perfect it feels, holding him in my arms.
“I could get used to this,” says Timothy after our conversation starts fracturing into pools of comfortable silences as the TV hums and rambles, volume too low to discern actual words. We must’ve been talking for well over an hour by now. “Do you ever feel …” He goes silent, the question vanishing the moment it’s started.
I run my hand up his arm, still holding him against me, his face on my chest. “Do I ever feel …?”