Tell Me Our Story

“Speaking of pictures,” O’Hara said jovially, the changing tone a reprieve. “You really need to order more merch. Next ICon you’ll have your own table. You’ll set up next to mine and I’ll help you with your crowds of fans. Show you the ropes. They’ll throw themselves at you, of course—I’ll help you pry them off your sculpted ice-prince body. Or I can be a buffer so they don’t touch you at all. Actually, that’s better. Your personal buffer.”

“Ridiculous.”

Laughter. “We’ll see. Jonathan?”

“What?”

Playfulness subsided. “Please lull me to sleep?”

Relentless.

“You could summarise your novel.”

“. . .”

“Or guess what’s in mine.”

“. . .”

“Or—”

“Once upon a time . . .”

Blankets shifted as O’Hara reclaimed the middle of the bed. “Go on.”

“. . . there was a serious-minded man—”

“What was his occupation?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, let him be a botanist.”

“Botanist?”

“Hmmm, a gorgeous serious-minded botanist surrounded by roses, I like that. Keep going.”

“There was a serious-minded botanist, who discovered a playful black kitten chasing butterflies in his garden—if you dare interrupt me again, O’Hara, I will stop lulling you.”

“Ohh, touchy. . . . Nonono, that doesn’t count.”

A finger wrapped around Jonathan’s thumb. O’Hara shook him. “Please? I’ll be quiet. I totally won’t tell you that I like this kitten already.”

“. . . The botanist liked the kitten too, the moment he saw him frolicking in the sunshine. He liked him so much, that when the kitten smooched around his legs mewling for food, the botanist fed him.

“The botanist didn’t expect him to come back, but the next day the black kitten made a ruckus in his yard and trotted to his feet, covered in soil. With a few chastising words, the botanist cleaned him up and fed him again.

“The next day, the same. Then the next week. And the next month. Every afternoon, the black kitten, now a young cat, came back.”

“I have a bad feeling.” O’Hara’s finger tightened on Jonathan’s thumb. “Why do I have a bad feeling?”

“The botanist, he . . . cared a lot for his cat friend. Even though on paper, it was an impossible match. Naughty cats like this one loved to tear around his prized garden, create chaos where he preferred order, but . . . nevertheless, this black cat carved a spot in his heart.”

“Please tell me the cat doesn’t die.”

“He doesn’t die. The cat finds other neighbour friends who feed him, and he stops coming to visit the botanist.”

Whispered, “That’s it?”

“The botanist spends every afternoon hoping his friend will come back, but his garden is undisturbed, the butterflies left in peace.”

“You’re supposed to be the prince of Happily Ever Afters!”

“Fine. The cat comes back. He’s as oblivious as ever, rolling around in the grasses like the years away hadn’t happened. The botanist though. The years in between, the botanist had been quietly watching the cat. Watching his fluffy friend move from neighbour to neighbour. He wonders why his food wasn’t enough. So when the cat purrs, he’s wary. He feeds him—he always would. But he doesn’t think they should be friends like they were again.”

“You’re really heavy on the allegory, Jonathan.”

“Good night, O’Hara.”

O’Hara puffed his pillows and curled onto his other side. He mumbled something, and then, “That story needs a better ending.”

Jonathan woke to O’Hara propped on his elbow, looking down at him.

“You’re eating in my bed!”

O’Hara bit down, flaky crumbs tumbling to the mattress between them.

“This is the last nata,” he said around a mouthful.

“Why didn’t you eat it at the dining table?”

“There’s nothing pretty to look at.”

Jonathan rubbed his throbbing head and bunched himself into a sitting position, blankets folding to his lap. “Why is it you’re always waking early?”

“Again with your assumptions.”

He did not sleep in. Couldn’t have. “I have work. My alarm’s set.”

O’Hara nibbled at his nata, more pastry flaking off.

Jonathan blinked at morning-wrecked hair, flushed cheeks, lazy smile.

“I didn’t wake early.”

“. . .”

“How can I wake when I didn’t sleep?”

Fatigue flashed over O’Hara’s face, the skin around his eyes dark. His eyes weren’t exactly bereft of their usual sparkle but they were . . . muted somewhat. Like he’d spent the night tossing, turning—the disarray of blankets attested to this—and perhaps lost in thought.

O’Hara said simply, “Your story didn’t exactly lull me the way I wanted it to.” There was a moment, the quality of the air between them shifting . . . before it could settle, a laugh. “You have to work? Is this library stuff or dance practice?”

“A shift at the library.”

“Ah.”

“Followed by a dance session.”

“What!? Can I come watch?”

Jonathan tried to make sense of the blankets. A twisted corner lay over his lap, the other three-quarters somehow knotted around O’Hara’s lower body.

“Is that a yes?”

“You should sleep.”

“I can sleep on the beanbag at the library.”

“. . . that won’t be comfortable.”

A shrug. “I can read. Drift off to pleasant dreams of a happy ending.”