“Nag, nag, nag,” Mike says.
And Sean looks startled, then throws his head back and laughs like he does when Mike surprises him—raucous and loud. Mike feels inordinately pleased with himself, though he tries to keep it off his face. He doesn’t know how well he succeeds. He finds he doesn’t care much about hiding anything.
“You,” Sean says, wiping his eyes, “are the best thing I know.”
And Mike… well. Mike chokes on his coffee, having chosen that moment to take a sip. It sprays out on the table, and he’s trying to sit back at the same time so it doesn’t drip on his shirt. He’s wearing a plain white T-shirt again, not that he really owns much else, and he doesn’t want to have to go home before he goes to his shop.
Sean’s already got a rag out and is wiping down the table with one hand while he uses the other to rub Mike’s back in slow circles.
Mike’s got a napkin from the holder and wipes his mouth. He’s embarrassed, but doesn’t want to be. Because Sean’s hand is heavy and warm and he likes to be touched. Sean’s the only one who touches him these days, for the most part. He’d like to keep it that way, for as long as he possibly can.
“Was it something I said, big guy?” Sean asks, hunched over the table, mouth near Mike’s ear, like he knows what he’s done to Mike, that he’s ruined him for everyone else.
“Yeah,” Mike croaks.
“Yeah,” Sean says, and Mike can hear the smile in his voice.
Which is why Mike cannot be blamed when he blurts, “Saturday.”
Sean leans back a little, hand now on Mike’s shoulder. “Saturday?”
Mike nods. “Saturday,” he says, trying to stop himself from repeating it yet again and making things worse. “We could… do. Something.” And he berates himself internally, because could he sound any more ridiculous?
“Could we?” Sean says. “You only open in the morning.”
“And you don’t work at all,” Mike says.
“You checking up on me, Mike?” Sean asks, squeezing his shoulder.
He hadn’t been, no, but Oscar had given him this information pointedly when Mike first walked in, telling him that something should probably be done about that, given “you’ll both be free and all, don’t be a goddamn pussy about this, Jesus.”
Mike says, “I just….”
Sean gives him a break. “I suppose I haven’t sat in the park in a long while. Watched the clouds go by. I could even pack a picnic, if you’d be so inclined.”
Mike’s already nodding by the time Sean finishes. “That’s… that’s swell. That’s real swell.”
Sean looks over his shoulder and scans the diner. When no one tries to get his attention, he sits down opposite Mike in the booth with a little huff, tossing the wet rag to the side. He’s chewing on his bottom lip and he looks nervous, and Mike has no idea why. The hard part’s over. Mike fumbled his way through an invitation and Sean rescued it and here they are. He shouldn’t have
any reason to be nervous.
Mike waits, because whatever Sean has on his mind will come out eventually.
It does. He says, “You’re my best friend.”
“Yeah,” Mike says. “Yeah, I know. Me too. I mean, you. You’re mine too.”
“Okay. Good.”
Mike waits again. He doesn’t wait for long.
“You’re… more than that,” Sean says. “To me.”
Mike Frazier doesn’t like talking about feelings, but this is Sean, so he swallows past it and puts on a brave face. He says, “Yeah, okay, me too,” because this feels like the beginning of something.
Sean’s cheeks pink a little. He’s smiling that smile when he says, “Do you remember when you first came in here?”
He does and he doesn’t. It’s odd, this disparity. He can’t remember a life when Sean wasn’t some kind of driving force that moved him, but there has to be. Sean’s younger than him. Mike hasn’t been in Amorea that long. He came here from… somewhere else. He’d been at—