Just before I blink open my eyes, I instinctually reach out for him because I sense that I am not tangled up with him, skin against skin warmed up in the morning sun, as I usually prefer to wake up- but my hands close around empty space, then, as I grumble to myself about his absence, the crumpled sheets that he left in his wake. Disappointed, I struggle into a sitting position with my back against the headboard and jerk my head once each way, left and right, feeling the stiff joints crack loudly in the quiet lull of our bedroom. Though, I don’t know why I’m disappointed. He’s always awake before me, and I know just where he’ll be- in the living room, or the kitchen, making breakfast or reading or something or other and when I walk into either room and he sees me, his gorgeous eyes will light up, he’ll smile at me like I hung the stars in the sky, and I’ll fall in love with him again, but. That all sounds silly, really. I can think all kinds of grand things about love and destiny but there’s no point talking about the fine scruples of fate and fortune seeing as I have everything I need all in the form of one man.
We don’t need to make grand declarations of love every day. I find fantasy in the domestic and ordinary though there is nothing ordinary about us, about him. I know when I walk into the kitchen today, he will greet me with his soft, low, sleep-rough voice, and maybe we’ll kiss briefly and chastely, or I’ll squeeze his hand, or press my palm against his back as I try and inch past him to get somewhere else. We don’t even need to tell eachother ‘I love you’- it’s just a habit, automatic. But even if it wasn’t. We know. That’s the beauty of this domesticity. It’s comforting, warm, it settles the fire in my chest, and I couldn’t ask for anything more than what I have when he is by my side.
Shut up, Brendon, I think, as I shift forwards and then stand up, heading towards my wardrobe. It’s fucking- what time is it- I check my watch- it’s 9am. You’re having grand thoughts about not being grand. Calm down. As I move, Bogart and Dottie are disturbed from their positions lying on the foot of the bed and they jump down and head downstairs, evidently where Elwood is, too. Groggily, I fumble for the handle on the cupboard and pull it open, blindly pulling out the first hoodie I see and pulling it over my head, registering distantly that it is technically Ryan’s, but then. I only really own a couple of hoodies. I walk into the en suite, glance in the mirror, check out what I’m dealing with today- okay, my hair is kinda greasy, but what’s new; shrugging to myself, I turn and leave, heading downstairs and then into the kitchen. And there Ryan is, just like I predicted- he’s pouring coffee, two mugs, I notice, he must’ve heard me moving about upstairs. The dogs are moving around his feet, vying for his attention; but as I walk in, they all start wagging their tails and turn to me. I pull up the hood to hide the greasiness of my hair and I wander up behind him, bending down on my way there briefly to pet the dogs. I stand up again, and my forehead presses against his back as I wrap my arms tenderly around his waist, gently enough so as not to surprise him. I feel his muscles tense for a split second under my arms but then they relax and I smile against the fabric of his shirt.
”Hi.” My voice sounds unused and a little raspy and for the first time since waking up I realise that there is a tingle in my throat, a slight soreness. Great. Not like I have a show soon, or anything. Whatever- not like a bug ever stopped me before. I clear my throat and stand on my tiptoes to kiss Ryan’s cheek before I drop my arms to my sides and move to stand by the counter. ”Sleep well?” Yeah, He replies after a second, and I shift back a little to let him put the kettle down. Then, he turns to face me, a mug in each hand, and hands me one, smiling back at me. Only when he looks at me like this do I ever somewhat believe that he loves me to the immeasurable amount that I love him.
Wrapping both hands around the coffee and bringing it to my lips to take a sip, I keep my eyes on him as he does the same, leaning with his back against the counter. Did you? I, in turn, lean against the counter island in the middle of the kitchen and nod after mulling it over briefly. ”I did. Soundly. Even after that- what did we watch last night? I don’t fuckin’ remember but it was freaky,” I say, knitting my eyebrows together as I try to remember- but it was just some cliché b-list horror movie. Neither of us get scared particularly easily, we usually just lounge around and laugh at how many tropes there are, how cringey the films are. Or we fall asleep. My thoughts briefly wander to the amusing idea of making Ryan watch a rom-com. He’s more of an artsy indie film guy, and you could probably tell that from looking at him.
What? B, that was awful. The acting was terrible. Like, atrocious. And I don’t say that a lot. I scoff, raising an eyebrow at him and taking another sip from my coffee. ”Yes, you do.” He’s about to protest but then clearly thinks better of it because he knows I’m right. Instead, he shrugs and smiles again, hiding it behind his mug. God, he’s so perfect, I think distantly, and, with this infatuated thought now in my head, I set my mug onto the counter island and move forwards, letting my hands rest at his waist and standing up on my toes to kiss him, gently, trapping his bottom lip between mine and then grinning against his jaw as I drop back down onto my feet. ”I luh’you,” I say, and, yeah, he already knows. But. It feels good to remind him sometimes.
We don’t need to make grand declarations of love every day. I find fantasy in the domestic and ordinary though there is nothing ordinary about us, about him. I know when I walk into the kitchen today, he will greet me with his soft, low, sleep-rough voice, and maybe we’ll kiss briefly and chastely, or I’ll squeeze his hand, or press my palm against his back as I try and inch past him to get somewhere else. We don’t even need to tell eachother ‘I love you’- it’s just a habit, automatic. But even if it wasn’t. We know. That’s the beauty of this domesticity. It’s comforting, warm, it settles the fire in my chest, and I couldn’t ask for anything more than what I have when he is by my side.
Shut up, Brendon, I think, as I shift forwards and then stand up, heading towards my wardrobe. It’s fucking- what time is it- I check my watch- it’s 9am. You’re having grand thoughts about not being grand. Calm down. As I move, Bogart and Dottie are disturbed from their positions lying on the foot of the bed and they jump down and head downstairs, evidently where Elwood is, too. Groggily, I fumble for the handle on the cupboard and pull it open, blindly pulling out the first hoodie I see and pulling it over my head, registering distantly that it is technically Ryan’s, but then. I only really own a couple of hoodies. I walk into the en suite, glance in the mirror, check out what I’m dealing with today- okay, my hair is kinda greasy, but what’s new; shrugging to myself, I turn and leave, heading downstairs and then into the kitchen. And there Ryan is, just like I predicted- he’s pouring coffee, two mugs, I notice, he must’ve heard me moving about upstairs. The dogs are moving around his feet, vying for his attention; but as I walk in, they all start wagging their tails and turn to me. I pull up the hood to hide the greasiness of my hair and I wander up behind him, bending down on my way there briefly to pet the dogs. I stand up again, and my forehead presses against his back as I wrap my arms tenderly around his waist, gently enough so as not to surprise him. I feel his muscles tense for a split second under my arms but then they relax and I smile against the fabric of his shirt.
”Hi.” My voice sounds unused and a little raspy and for the first time since waking up I realise that there is a tingle in my throat, a slight soreness. Great. Not like I have a show soon, or anything. Whatever- not like a bug ever stopped me before. I clear my throat and stand on my tiptoes to kiss Ryan’s cheek before I drop my arms to my sides and move to stand by the counter. ”Sleep well?” Yeah, He replies after a second, and I shift back a little to let him put the kettle down. Then, he turns to face me, a mug in each hand, and hands me one, smiling back at me. Only when he looks at me like this do I ever somewhat believe that he loves me to the immeasurable amount that I love him.
Wrapping both hands around the coffee and bringing it to my lips to take a sip, I keep my eyes on him as he does the same, leaning with his back against the counter. Did you? I, in turn, lean against the counter island in the middle of the kitchen and nod after mulling it over briefly. ”I did. Soundly. Even after that- what did we watch last night? I don’t fuckin’ remember but it was freaky,” I say, knitting my eyebrows together as I try to remember- but it was just some cliché b-list horror movie. Neither of us get scared particularly easily, we usually just lounge around and laugh at how many tropes there are, how cringey the films are. Or we fall asleep. My thoughts briefly wander to the amusing idea of making Ryan watch a rom-com. He’s more of an artsy indie film guy, and you could probably tell that from looking at him.
What? B, that was awful. The acting was terrible. Like, atrocious. And I don’t say that a lot. I scoff, raising an eyebrow at him and taking another sip from my coffee. ”Yes, you do.” He’s about to protest but then clearly thinks better of it because he knows I’m right. Instead, he shrugs and smiles again, hiding it behind his mug. God, he’s so perfect, I think distantly, and, with this infatuated thought now in my head, I set my mug onto the counter island and move forwards, letting my hands rest at his waist and standing up on my toes to kiss him, gently, trapping his bottom lip between mine and then grinning against his jaw as I drop back down onto my feet. ”I luh’you,” I say, and, yeah, he already knows. But. It feels good to remind him sometimes.