Mike thinks, This is mine. This moment. It’s mine. It’s ours. We made it, and it’s ours.
IT’S LATER, and it’s almost dark. Mike’s walked Sean to his door like the perfect gentleman he is, and he’s nervous now. He’s nervous because those thoughts in the park, the ones about kissing lips or cheek, seemed so much easier then, when he had all the time in the world. Any choice was hours away, but it’s here now, and Mike is almost crippled with indecision.
Man up, he tells himself. Man up.
“I had a good time,” Sean says, that small smile on his face.
“I did too.” Mike reminds himself that this is one of his best friends, and that they’ve been building up to this. He knows, mostly, how Sean feels about him. He knows him better than almost anyone else. He can take chances with him. He can step off ledges for him. That low swooping feeling in his stomach is something he wants again and again and—
Sean says, “I want to do this more with—” but that’s all he gets out because Mike’s kissing him.
Mike’s eyes are open, and Sean’s eyes are wide, and their lips are pressed together. Neither of them are moving, and it’s the smallest of pressures, but it’s good, it’s so good. Then Sean’s eyes flutter shut, and his hands come up slowly and settle on Mike’s hips, and he opens his mouth slightly and sighs. Mike feels the warm breath on his lips, and he moves then. He turns his head slightly and the angle is different, and he brings his big hands up, cupping Sean’s face, holding him close, not wanting him to ever pull away.
His skin is buzzing, and he feels like maybe he’s floating just a little bit. It’s chaste, this kiss, and Mike’s breathing through his nose a little too loudly, but it’s everything he could have asked for. There’s the brush of a tongue against his bottom lip, there and gone again, and then they’re leaning their foreheads together and just breathing each other’s air. Sean’s eyes are still closed, but the corners of his eyes are crinkled, and he’s licking his lips like he’s trying to chase the taste of Mike.
“That was…,” he says. “That was real good.” He sounds dazed.
“Yeah,” Mike says.
Sean’s eyes open. “Yeah, big guy.”
Mike thinks, I want this. I want this forever.
XI
MIKE WAKES up at the beginning of the work week thinking about mountains. Nothing specifically about them, mind you, but his first thought when he opens his eyes is mountains and he’s brushing his teeth and thinking, mountains. He’s thinking about Sean too, like he always does, and he’s thinking about the week ahead, but then there’s mountains and it’s followed by We could. I can see it now, Mikey. We could go to them mountains.
He doesn’t know where that came from.
He doesn’t know why he’s thinking so much about the mountains.
But they’re there as he showers, and there as he’s dressing. They’re there as he parcels out exactly one cup of kibble for Martin, who eyes him with faint disinterest, tail flicking back and forth. They’re there as he puts his wallet in his back pocket, and he can’t quite seem to shake them.
Maybe he dreamed about them the night before.
He doesn’t remember the dream if so.
But that’s okay. He rarely remembers any of his dreams.
He shakes his head, shutting the front door behind him. He’s probably just got a case of the Mondays.
But he’s looking at them as he walks down the sidewalk. He’s distracted by them when the townsfolk greet him, bright and cheery, as they always do. They say, “Why, good morning to you there, Mike!” and “It’s gonna be a hot one today, bet your fur.” And he’s looking at the mountains around Amorea like he’s never seen them before. They tower around the little town, like they’re caging it in, and they’re picturesque as always, steep and snowcapped, and he responds with things like, “Yeah, nice to see you” and “Looks like,” but his heart’s not in it, because he thinks, Well, maybe I could just go to them myself.
IT’S A usual weekday morning in the diner in that it’s loud, and Walter’s laughing brightly in the kitchen, shouting out order up order up as he rings the little bell with the spatula he uses to sling hash. One of the girls is weaving in and out of the tables, tray held high above her head. Another girl is at the lunch counter, pouring coffee. Mondays are always busy, and they have an extra pair of hands on in the morning as Sean can’t handle the rush by himself. Actually, Mike thinks, he probably could, but Walter never wants that kind of stress on him.
Okay, maybe it’s not exactly the usual, because Sean’s sitting across from him in the booth, the picture of them sitting on the dock hung on the wall above them. It’s not the usual because Sean’s tangled his feet with Mike’s under the table, and Mike’s rather giddy about it, though he tries to keep a stern look on his face. He’s a grown man playing footsie underneath a table at a diner. He’s cringing internally, but doesn’t put a stop to it. Probably because Sean’s wearing such a dopey smile that Mike desperately wants to kiss.
Sean’s pushing his buttons. He’s got to be. Probably trying to see how far and how much he can get away with, the little shit. He doesn’t seem to be fooled by the cool look on Mike’s face, hands wrapped around a cup of joe, eyes crinkled at the corners.
This isn’t the usual. They don’t usually touch, not like this, but Mike knows things are changing now, things are moving forward instead of the odd stasis he’s been in for years. He’s cautious, sure, and has some trepidation, but that’s all on him. He doesn’t doubt this thing he has with Sean. He’ll never doubt Sean. He sometimes thinks that Sean’s still too young, that they’re too far apart in age, but the thought of Sean with anyone else makes him feel like punching something as hard as he can. Any fears he might have don’t measure up to the thrill of what they have now.
It’s not the usual.
But it’s good.
“I’m trying to eat here,” Mike says, attempting to maintain some decorum, even though he knows it’s a losing battle.
“Sure, big guy,” Sean says, sipping his coffee without ever looking away from Mike. And if that doesn’t send a bolt of heat through him, he doesn’t know what will.