The townsfolk out and about smile at them knowingly, but aside from a greeting here and there, leave them to each other. There’s the tip of a wide-brimmed hat or a gloved hand raised, fingers wiggling slightly in their direction. But Amorea knows the evenings, these little stretches of time between the diner and home, are meant for Sean and Mike.
Sometimes they talk to each other in hushed voices, little murmurs that can’t be overheard. Other times they’re quiet, just enjoying each other’s company. Mike can do both, and he tries to follow Sean’s lead. Sean’s better at this sort of thing, and Mike still worries he’ll say something that’ll screw it all up. He’s not good with words, though he’s trying to be better.
Sean says, “I think this is my favorite part of the day.”
Mike’s not quite sure what he means. “Nightfall?” he asks.
There’s that smile. “Sometimes I think you’re willfully dense.”
“What’s your tale, nightingale?” Mike says, and Sean laughs at him for that. God, how that makes Mike happy.
“What’s my tale?” Sean says. “Yeah. You know what I’m talking about, you wet rag.”
“Me?” Mike says, shocked.
“You.”
Mike… doesn’t know what to do with that. He knows what he’d like to do with that, but he doesn’t know how. Maybe it wouldn’t be right, here in the open where anyone could cast an eyeball on them, but he wants to press Sean up against the side of the nearest building, bodies together, and just bury his face in Sean’s neck, breathing him in and breathing him in and breathing him in.
Instead he says, “You’re my favorite part of the day too,” and hopes that it’s enough.
It is. From the slow-blooming smile on Sean’s face, it is, because for some reason, some goddamn reason Mike doesn’t understand, he’s always enough for Sean.
Sean tightens his grip on Mike’s elbow and tilts his head until it’s laying on Mike’s shoulder, and they take their time walking back to Sean’s house. Because they’ve got it. They’ve got all the time in the world.
THE FIRST stars are coming out by the time they stand at Sean’s door. Mike lives a couple of streets down and over, and he’s looking forward to the walk home, given that he’ll have some time to think about what to do to take the next step with Sean. It needs to be something special. Something just for him, so that there will be no misunderstanding about what Mike wants.
But that’s for later.
Now, now is about standing in front of Sean’s little bungalow, trying to find the words to say I miss you when we’re not together and I think I might be in love with you and Let’s do this forever and for always without actually saying the words.
Mike has opened his mouth to say something when Sean says, “Did you hurt yourself?”
Mike snaps his mouth shut. Then, “What?”
“Your wrist,” he says, trailing his fingers down Mike’s arm. “You keep scratching at it.”
“Oh,” Mike says. “No. I’m not hurt. Just itches, I guess.” Truth is, he wasn’t even aware he was scratching his
wrist again.
He startles, just a little, when Sean grasps his hand and pulls it up toward his face. He wants to laugh at the look on Sean’s face, the studious expression, like he’s going to find the problem right here, right now.
He starts to say, What’s your diagnosis, Dr. Mellgard? because he’s in a good mood and nothing is wrong and everything is fine.
But the words dry up in his mouth when he feels warm breath against him, and Sean’s eyes are on his as he presses the tenderest of kisses to his wrist. Mike swallows thickly at the scrape of Sean’s lips, how they rest against him for one and two and three before he pulls away. He feels branded. He feels marked, like he’s been given a promise tattooed on his skin.
Sean looks amused again, as he often does with Mike. “You okay there, big guy?” he says.
Mike just nods, not trusting himself to speak. His face has to be a flaming red right now, and he hopes his beard is doing enough to cover most of it up. He knows it’s not.
“Good,” Sean says and finally lets go of Mike’s wrist. “You have poker night tomorrow with the boys?”
Mike nods again.
There it is. The smile just for him. “I’ll see you in the morning, then? No mistress, right?”
Mike finds his voice. “Yeah,” he says quickly. “Yes. You’ll see me in the morning. I won’t miss it. I wouldn’t miss it.”