Page 64 of Poetry On Ice
He turns his face again and sucks in a ragged breath, letting it out in a warm gust that spills down the side of my neck. His lips turn up in a slow smile and his beard grazes my cheek.
He reaches down and worries the waistband of my pants, finding the tie and tugging on it gently. “Thoughtyou didn’t own pajama pants,” he says, pushing my pants down enough to free my cock.
“I didn’t say I don’t own any. I said I don’t sleep in them.”
By the time we’re done with dinner, the wine, and each other, I’m drunk, and I’m almost one hundred percent sure it’s not from the wine. We stagger to the bathroom. “Toothbrushes are in there,” I say, pointing to the drawer where I keep a stack of disposable hotel-issue toothbrushes.
“Ugh. Can’t stand these toothbrushes,” he grumbles as he unwraps one. “They’re so square, and their bristles are so hard.”
“Say no more, baby. I’ll buy you your own toothbrush to keep here tomorrow. Diamond-shaped head, soft bristle.”
He drops his head in his hands and groans. “That’s not what I mea— You know what, forget it. I know there’s not a goddamn thing I can do to change your mind when you look at me like that.”
“I love that you get that about me.”
He closes his eyes and shakes his head but doesn’t speak. I spread some toothpaste on his brush and we stand side-by-side at the sink and brush our teeth. The entire time, I watch him in the vanity mirror. Much as he’d love to deny it, he watches me too. Our eyes meet in the mirror, and when they do, I smile broadly around my brush and he rolls his eyes. Each time it happens, his eye roll grows weaker until all that’s left is a sheepish dip of his head that does nothing to hide the fact that he’s smiling too.
I blow out the candles and the room dissolves into darkness. It’s been a big day. A watershed day for us. We’re both exhausted by the time we roll into bed. He takes the right side, I take the left. He lies on his back, and I lie on my side facing him. I can’t make out the shape of him exactly, but I know he’s there because the heat of his body fills the whole room.
I bunch up my pillow and move it closer to his, kicking the sheets on my side loose so my legs don’t feel trapped and I can put my foot out if I get too hot during the night.
The sound of his breathing saws in and out. It’s a steady, predictable sound that’s speeding up instead of slowing. It sounds less like that of a man winding downfor the day and more like one amping himself up to say something.
I know it’s not easy for him to let himself be close to other people, so I don’t push or prompt him.
After a while, he sighs and says, “I’m not fucking anyone else either, McGuire.” I reach for his hand and take it in mine, squeezing it to let him know I hear him. Not just his words. I hear what it means to him. And what it costs him to say it. “I’m negative and on PrEP. I should’ve told you before I came in you, but I was…”
He searches for a word but can’t find it.
“Distracted?” I suggest.
He huffs out a breath in the affirmative. “Something like that.”
“I’m negative too,” I say.
To set him at ease and distract him from the fact he just initiated a meaningful conversation with me, I swing an arm and leg over him and tell him about some of my plans for the house. I tell him about my ideas for the guest bedrooms, the study, and the porch I want to build out back in the summer. I talk quietly, keeping my voice low. I talk until the time between the air entering his lungs and leaving it lengthens. For good measure, I talk a bit more.
“I thought cuddling was supposed to be a quiet activity,” he says eventually.
“Definitely not. Cuddling is when people tell each other their secrets.”
He lets out a breath that sounds faintly like someone saying, “Oh fuck,” but he doesn’t move or try to get away.
“Want to know one of my secrets?” I ask.
“If I say no, will it stop you from telling me?”
“No.”
“Then sure, go ahead.”
I move closer to him, so close I can’t get any closer. My chest is pressed against his side and I’ve molded my arm and leg into him. Despite how strongly I feel it and how I’m generally okay with wearing my heart on my sleeve, I’m a little nervous. An uncomfortable flutter between my ribs and my heart makes me think it’s a good thing I’m lying down.
“I like you, Ant.”
It’s embarrassing to admit. It’s embarrassing to hear myself say it aloud. It sounds juvenile. Almost silly.
But it’s true.