Jason winked at him. “We’re boyfriends. Your bags are mine to carry too.”
Owen laughed. “Look, Jane offered to do the second half of my shift today.”
“Why would she offer that?”
“She overheard my parents on the phone earlier—they went to visit Mum’s sister today and they’ll be heading back via our place. Jane needs me to cover one of her late shifts next week so it works for her if we swap. What do you reckon?”
“Finally.”
Owen’s eyebrow twitched.
“Your photo album keeps taunting me. I want stories.”
Five hours later, Jason got stories.
They sat crammed on the couch after spaghetti and homemade meatballs, tartan dress and tartan pants on either side of Jason. Mary panting at his feet. Owen behind the couch looking over their shoulders, one hand lazily playing with the back of Jason’s hair.
“And that’s Owen on his third birthday.”
Jason grinned at the boy with his eyes rolled back, shirt off, covered in chocolate. “Drunk on his cake, I see.”
“Oh honey, that’s not cake.”
Owen groaned and fingers squeezed his nape when Jason couldn’t stop laughing.
“This one was just before we discovered a tiger snake in the backyard. Look, you can see it in the background . . . there.”
“Jesus.”
“He was the bravest of all of us,” Nathan said, with a proud glance at his son. “Always brave, my boy.”
“You should have seen how competently he handled my snake.”
Fingers stilled in his hair. Renee and Nathan blinked. Then Mum quickly jerked a finger toward Owen in a school bag. “Oh, and this one . . .”
Jason had never been so thoroughly spoiled. He couldn’t even pick a favourite photo, although the cringey teenage ones were something. The soccer uniform, hands on hips, and a mouth full of braces was fun. So was his first date picture, his mum hugging him dressed in rainbow tartan. He liked the glimpse of roses. Old-school romantic.
“All I need now is to see you in sexy leopard print leotards,” Jason said once the parents were gone and they’d finished the after dinner clean-up.
Owen swiped suds off Jason’s nose with a small, secretive smile. “I saw Mum gave you one of my resume photos.”
“It’s in my wallet right where a boyfriend pic belongs.” Jason pecked his lips and moved to the piano. “I’ve been practicing something for you.”
Owen strolled up to the window beside the piano and clasped his hands behind his back. While he stared out through the darkened night to Carl’s property, Jason let his fingers dance out the rendition of “Don’t Dream It’s Over” he’d been working on.
When he finished, Owen was quiet. His shoulders lifted on a large intake of air and slowly fell.
“Was that not . . . what you’re into?” Jason murmured.
“No, it’s . . .” Owen turned and sat next to Jason on the stool. His arm blazed with heat. Something more intense filled his gaze. “I didn’t think I could let myself again.”
The soft way he spoke, the frustrated edge to it, followed by the soft chuckle. “But here we are.”
Owen glanced at the instrument Jason had spent so many hours tuning over the last few days.
Oh, oh. So what? He didn’t care. He pressed back against Owen’s arm. “It’s okay. Over the piano works for me.”
“Jason . . .” The groan had Jason looking at closed eyes.
“What? We can.”
A long breath. “Not tonight.”
“Sure? I really don’t—”
“Why did you play that song?”
“You have a few Crowded House playlists on your Spotify account. I thought you’d like it?”
“I do. Especially that one. Especially you playing it.”
“I like how it’s an Australian band but there are Kiwis in it. Sort of like, look how great the two combine. Can I play you another one?”
“‘Fall At Your Feet’?”
Jason kissed him and began, their lips still sliding together. To his surprise, when he pulled out of the kiss Owen started singing. It almost made him stumble. The soft deep quality of it. The careful timing. The changing of all the hers to hims.
A nervous thrill wove through his veins. This was something . . . magical. The energy of their music thrummed through him, too much to process—he was achy everywhere, inside and out. He abandoned the last few notes. “Owen?”
“Yes?”
“Please . . . please?”
“C’mere.”
The moment Owen sank into him that evening—one long, deep push—was ferociously fulfilling. Jason’s breath had hitched at how intimate and intensely trusting the moment was. Each thrust pushed him closer and closer to the cusp of . . . a much-needed release. And it delivered on one aspect, but not the other. Not the one trapped on the tip his tongue.
Not the one trapped behind that thought in the back of his mind: the days were ticking down. Soon Carl would return and all this would be reduced to memories.
Unless . . .
It burst suddenly off his tongue the next morning, at breakfast. “Maybe you can visit? After the wedding?”