Back in April 2016, Joodiff issued a challenge based on a photo of a well know actor dressed in a blue shirt with a very distinctive print of a certain mouse. Got Tea's response can be read in her sweet and warm story "Distraction". This is my - very late - response.
Great thanks to Joodiff for the inspiration and to Got Tea for all her help, support and beta.
Memories
...
Hesitant and expectant, with her stomach full of butterflies, Grace regards the big wardrobe in front of her. This is all so new to her, so definitely over-stepping a line she's never crossed before... that she never thought she'd even have the chance to cross. But then again, lately she's found herself treading many new paths that just a short while ago she wouldn't have had the opportunity to walk.
It's not the first time she's been in his bedroom; in fact, she's spent quite a bit of time here lately... in his soft and very comfortable king-size bed, but she's not yet had any reason to go through his wardrobe. Some of the boundaries in this new side of their relationship are still to be established.
Standing before the huge wardrobe in the inner sanctum of Peter Boyd's home – his bedroom – rummaging for a sweater or some other item of clothing to keep her warm isn't a thought she's ever allowed herself to consider before, but now she's cold and the man himself has just told her to do so. After staying inside the house for most of the day they'd needed some fresh air and decided on a long, pleasurable walk; the day was nice and the early spring sun shining, but after some time the wind had crept up, leaving her feeling very, very cold. Returning briskly home – overly protectively and concerned about her health as he is nowadays – he bluntly asked her to go upstairs and look for a sweater to help her fight off the chill while he set about making a fire in the living room.
And now, ready to get started, she's curious, she has to admit. So very curious indeed. But what woman wouldn't be? To go through, and even better, to have permission to go through a new… lover's… wardrobe.
What a fantastic opportunity to learn new things about the man. Not to mention the psychological insight of studying the hidden sides of his character through his most personal and private belongings is an unexpected but interesting gift. Unnerving, certainly, she admits to herself, but most interesting as well.
Not knowing where to start, she steps back in order to get a better view over the huge piece of built-in furniture that fills out the entire wall at one end of the room. Extremely wide, very high. Dark wood. Four doors. Four doors, for God's sake, and two of them mirrored! Why on earth would a single man need such a big wardrobe? A woman, maybe, she muses, but a man?
Shaking her head in wonder, she decides to start methodically, going from one end to the other and simply work her way through the task. Working systematically has always been the most successful tactic for her and definitely her first choice.
Still slightly apprehensive, she steps closer, opening the door farthest to the left. Immediately the spicy aroma of his aftershave mixed with the scent of the laundry detergent he uses envelopes her, automatically making her inhale deeply, enjoying the moment. Intoxicated by the heavy essence she closes her eyes for a second, relishing the mixture of joy, warmth, love and security it provides her with. Still, in awe of the way their relationship has turned out lately and heading for deeply in love with him, she feels a hunger for every little piece of new knowledge she's be able to find about the unknown aspects of Peter Boyd.
Opening her eyes again, she gazes in wonder at the large array of suits hanging in a line in front of her, obviously carefully sorted by colours and shades; dark suits to the left, lighter colours to the right. Different styles, different qualities and textures, but all made by the best and most expensive brands. To the far left hangs his dinner jacket, black of course, but no doubt as smart as all the rest, and unquestionably tailored to fit him perfectly, too. What a striking figure he must be wearing that... He always looks good, but dressed in a dinner jacket – she'd willingly pay good money for that sight. Mmmm... Nothing like a sharply dressed man, she muses, a gentle smile tucking dreamily into the corner of her mouth.
Finding it impossible to resist, her fingertips slide softly over the shoulders of the many items of clothing, some still carefully wrapped in plastic bags from their last visit to the dry cleaner; all fresh and ready to wear. What a vain man he is, she thinks, laughing softly to herself, but then again, she'd be the first to admit how dazzling his physical appearance is, and that he certainly is a man to wear his clothes well.
And oh, bloody hell, she's in trouble here and she knows it. Unconsciously, she draws her hand back, speculatively tapping a finger to her lips; she really must pull herself together and go on searching or she'll never find what she's looking for. She could probably stay here all evening just studying his clothes and the orderly way he keeps his wardrobe organised, but at some point he will definitely come looking for her, wondering where she is and what's keeping her. With a firm movement, she closes the door – this is obviously not where she'll find what she's looking for – and turns to the next one.
Shirts. Shirts, shirts and even more shirts; all ironed, all hanging nicely on hangers, and all organised in the same way as the suits. Every single one in solid, understated colours and of his usual tailored brand, as far as she can tell. And a certain pattern in the fabric of one, the particular buttons in another bring back memories of particular occasions and days long past. Some happy... most of them happy, in fact, but a few...
A specific, light grey shade with darker grey buttons catches her eye. With one hand she parts the shirts in order to have a better view at the distinctive item, immediately recognising it by the buttons. Flashes and images of old memories from the last time she saw him wearing this shirt resurface, almost overwhelming her. Feeling ever so slightly shaken, she lets go of the cloth as if burnt. Automatically her arms fall down along her sides, hands clenched into fists. He'd been so angry with her back then, shouting at her so fiercely; she'd thought it was the end of the two of them working together. In a desperate attempt to keep her own anger at bay she'd been staring at his buttons instead of his face, not wanting to see the fury in his expression, his mouth spitting the worst accusations and curses at her. Definitely, so definitely, not their best day. Not... certainly not a happy moment worth dwelling on – she really must let it go... shake it off...
Brushing a hand over her eyes, trying to erase it from her mind, she focuses on the rest of the shirts to divert her thoughts. There seems to be an endless row of them…
It still amazes her every time he has some kind of a messy incident during work that leaves his clothing torn or dirty with coffee, blood or something even worse, that he just goes to his office and there almost magically seems to conjure a clean, well-pressed suit or an unspoiled, and even ironed, shirt; always, as here, in his favourite brand. God, she muses, what a fortune he must spend on his clothes…
On the back of the door is a hanger filled with ties in multiple patterns and colours, though she can hardly remember the last time she saw him wear one. But then, there are some social occasions where a man must wear a tie, even one so independent and determined to follow his own path that he never normally gives a damn about what social standards tell him he should or shouldn't do. And yes, she definitely likes him – would even say she enjoys the sight of him – without a tie, and, of course, she always appreciates watching him when he chooses to leave one or two of the top buttons on his shirt open… But again, this isn't what she's looking for, as much fun it may be, and hastily she turns towards the next section.
The last two doors shield sections with drawers and shelves. The first drawer she pulls out is filled with socks neatly rolled into small balls, the next is full of underwear, mostly trunks, all in dark colours but also some briefs, also dark. In the back of the drawer, a colourful garment catches her eye. Pausing, staring at the object she just scanned her eyes over, she wonders if it really is what she thinks it is. Sighing deeply, she lifts up a pair of Speedos. Her heart rate speeds up again… this really is beginning to seem like a bad idea – it's certainly not good for her equilibrium. Not good at all. Visions of Boyd wearing these start to pass before her inner eye; all wet, glued to his body in all the right... wrong… places... pearls of salty water running down his chest... The fantasy begins to overwhelm her, her breathing gets faster, becomes shallower…
Steady, steady now, she scolds herself. There's no need for fantasies anymore; nowadays she only has to ask, or to reach for him. Or just take the initiative. It took him by surprise the first time she blatantly did so, but after that first moment of astonishment he seemed very pleased and to thoroughly appreciate the fact that she wasn't shy and that she knew quite a trick or two from her younger days back in the experimental time of the sixties. It works so very well for both of them and, eyes closed, she feels a rush of heated desire running through her veins and she almost loses her grip on reality but, resolutely, she sighs again and swallows, trying to collect herself. With remarkable determination she shakes her head to clear her mind of those exciting and wonderful visions, neatly folds the trunks, and puts them firmly back into the back of the drawer.
Catching a glimpse of her own reflection in the mirror beside her, she studies herself critically. No makeup, hair not styled, and wearing the same clothes as yesterday. Not prepared for a night out, she didn't bring extra clothes with her to work. What does he see in her, she wonders. Small and slender, especially compared to him. Short, but with good legs, and the cleavage… well, it's fairly abundant, and if she wears a good bra…
She still doesn't know what it is he sees, but the image in the mirror still makes her smile. She looks so happy nowadays. Content even. Being with him she feels appreciated because in their private life he always has his focus on her.
But that isn't what she's here to contemplate and her goal isn't complete – she got to move on, but truth be told, she never thought it could be so much fun going through a wardrobe.
The next one is a low drawer sectioned in small square compartments containing quite a few sets of cufflinks; every single pair as elegant and well designed as everything else he owns. His taste – his taste really is impeccable. Belts in black, brown and grey leather are rolled up, most of the buckles big, but simple.
Suddenly a question occurs to her; does he manage his own laundry or does he pay somebody to wash his dirty clothes? There are so many things she doesn't know about him, but tilting her head, she finds it very hard to envision him doing ordinary, domestic things like laundry, cleaning the house, and the gardening. But then again, he's hardly got the time for it, given how much he works.
All this extreme order is actually a bit unnerving. Compared to this her own wardrobe is positively messy – it's in some kind of loose order but nothing like this categorical, systematic set-up. She wonders what that says about the two of them and how different they are.
Again, a glint of her own appearance catches her attention and for a short moment she's eye to eye with herself in the mirror, but then her eyes are drawn towards the big bed behind her and her thoughts trail off, back to the previous night. Him and her alone there... Automatically her eyes close and once again she feels his hands wandering all over her body, his weight upon her, feels him inside her. Her knees begin to weaken, and she has to steady herself by placing a hand on the door. God, what a time they had together. Maybe it's their age – allowing not just a quick fumble between the sheets but something most enjoyable and lasting. They hardly made it out of the bed the day before, and certainly not out of the house, and today was very nearly the same. Trying hard to master her thoughts and feelings again, she takes several deep, steadying breaths and after a few moments, her eyes open again.
Grace! Curiosity killed the cat, remember, a tiny voice sounds in her head. She'd better get on with it, she thinks, reluctantly. Move, she tries to say to herself in Boyd's distinctive, commanding way, but it's so hard not to linger and study all the items closely; to feel everything between her fingers – to lose herself in his belonging. This really is the most perfect way to learn more about her new lover, she muses.
Only one door left now. Turning towards it, opening it, she takes a look over its contents. This section is obviously hiding the kind of objects she's been looking for. On the shelves are stacks of neatly folded t-shirts and sweaters, methodically placed like everything else, sorted in qualities and colours. It's the content at the bottom that catches her eye, though, being not as similar as the rest.
Bending down, she pulls a few sweaters out of the pile for inspection. This is exactly what she's looking for, several in colours she never has seen him wear; yellow, purple and even a green one. Choosing the purple, woollen sweater – just the right colour for her, she thinks – she notices that it's clearly an old item. A bit worn-out around the edges and not something he's used for years. Nowadays it wouldn't fit over his broad chest. Pulling the sweater over her head, she immediately feels comfortable wearing it. It's so soft and comfortable. The sleeves are too long for her – only her fingertips are visible now – but never mind, she likes it that way and besides, there definitely is something very nice and cosy about wearing his clothing.
Kneeling down, she starts folding the rest of the sweaters neatly together again, but as she's trying to arrange it all back again on the shelf she spots a glimpse of some strong blue fabric with an unmistakably shape in black spread all over it.
It can't be… can it? Sitting up, she shakes her head in denial. No. No! There's no way this is what she actually thinks it is, surely? But there can be no mistake of those shapes, can there? She simply has to investigate this, just needs to be sure of what she's seeing – if only to save her inner peace. If not, she'll be speculating for days.
Bending down again, stretching her arm towards the very back of the shelf, she pulls out the object, giggling softly as she looks down at her hand. There it is. Exactly what she thought she saw. A shirt in bright blue material decorated with the unmistakable silhouette of the head of an extremely famous American cartoon mouse. Certainly not something she can imagine the elegant, immaculate Peter Boyd ever wearing. It's just not his style, not his style at all.
Except once, perhaps, probably fifteen or twenty odd years ago at least, and long before she knew him. Apparently, he had quite a different approach to his clothing back then.
Starting to giggle, she hides her face in the shirt to suppress the sound but soon it becomes louder and louder, and completely impossible to stop.
"Throwing in a party, are we?" His voice sounds behind her, quite curious but also with a hint of worry and concern. "Are you all right?"
Only managing a simple, "Fine," she tries hard to control her mirth. Looking over her shoulder, she half turns, lifting the shirt up, stammering between the chuckles, "Is... this... really... yours?"
"Oh, that's what it's all about." Kneeling down beside her, he snuggles an arm around her shoulder, tilting his head to have a better view on the object. "Christ, I haven't seen that for ages."
"Not exactly your style nowadays, eh?" she remarks, glancing at him with sparkling eyes. "I just can't imagine you wearing such a thing... not even years ago."
Seemingly without hearing her, he reaches for the shirt, taking it into his hand before continuing, moving his fingers slowly like a caress over the fabric. "Luke loved that one." A ghost of a smile plays over his lips.
Automatically, she searches for his hand, finds it, squeezing it lightly, comforting him. Leaning into him she reaches up, brushing her lips against his, sensing his need for thoughtfulness and contemplation, to dwell on the memories of his son. She rests comfortably against his chest without a word, supporting him with her nearness, the shirt still tucked in his hand, his thumb slowly moving back and forth over the fabric as he remains completely lost in thought.
An annoying, high-pitched sound suddenly distorts their peace, cutting through their tranquillity, tearing him out of his rumination.
With a slight shake of his head and an irritated. "What the fuck?" he gets up, holding his hand out to her to help her to her feet.
"Better go down and see who it is. I'll tidy up here and come down in a minute," she says, underlining her words with a little nod towards the door, before reaching for the shirt still in his hand.
Gazing at her for a moment, seemingly still lost in the past, he comes to his senses, glancing quickly at the shirt in his hand and, with a slight shrug, hands it to her before disappearing out of the door.
Folding the shirt carefully, she places it on the bed with a little pat, then bends down, collecting the last few items of clothing from the floor, putting them back before turning to the door to return to the floor below.
Walking into the living room she notices that the heavy curtains are drawn across the windows, a cheerful fire is burning merrily and a huge pile of pillows and blankets are scattered in front of the fireplace. She smiles happily as she sees two mugs beside a neat, green tea cosy which she is absolutely confident is hiding a pot of fresh, hot tea. Boyd, though, is conspicuous by his absence.
Smiling at his clear efforts to make everything as comfy and cosy for her as possible, she sinks down onto the floor, enjoying the heat radiating from the fire; even wrapped up in Boyd's old sweater she still feels a bit cold. After pouring a mug of the steaming tea, she gathers a bunch of pillows together, seating herself more comfortably and tucking her knees up under her chin, supporting the mug she's nursing in her hands. Gazing dreamily into the fire, she waits for Boyd to reappear, wondering what could possibly keep him for so long.
As she sips her tea a pleasant warmth soon begins to spread through her body and with a wonderful feeling of contentment she starts to relax; her mind drifts away, filled with a mix of delightful thoughts and memories and her hopes for the rest of the day and the following night.
Lost in her musing she suddenly starts hearing his footfalls from the hall. Turning her head towards of the door, she looks up expectantly, smiling towards him as he appears in the doorframe.
With a few long steps he crosses the room, kicking some pillows together, before dumping himself down beside her, sneaking an arm around her back, pulling her close. "Sorry, it was my old neighbour, Mrs. Smith, asking me for help. She needed to change a bulb in the kitchen but wasn't able to climb a ladder to reach it." Shrugging slightly, he goes on, "I do things like that from time to time whenever she comes asking me for help."
"Always a gentleman, helping damsels in distress. And I love you for it." Snuggling deeper into his embrace, Grace chuckles tenderly as she rests her head against his shoulder.
"Mrs. Smith is far too old to be a damsel," Boyd snorts, squeezing her shoulder lightly. "There's no need to worry." He flashes her that most charming, endearing smile of his.
"Damsels and old ladies, then," she immediately retorts, laughing happily, patting him tenderly on his knee.
Enjoying the warmth and the company of each other, they sit together for a long time talking easily about anything and nothing, gazing into the flames, sipping their tea. "Warm enough?" he murmurs at some point, tugging her closer to his body.
"Mm, absolutely," she answers softly, tilting her head towards him, raising a hand to gently let her fingers travel lightly through his beard before sneaking around his neck, pulling his head down to enable her to place a gentle kiss on his lips. Responding, Boyd turns towards her, placing his mug on the floor without even looking at what he's doing, and then scooping her into his embrace. He deepens the kiss in the most slow, lazy and extremely pleasurable way, while his hands start to wander up and down her spine.
Still lost in their kiss, he holds her tightly, dragging her with him as he slowly moves backwards, down onto the pillows, leaving them lying on the floor, intertwined in each other's arms. Letting go of her lips, he shifts, positioning himself behind her and draping an arm around her waist.
Spooning, Grace feels him placing his left elbow on the floor, one hand supporting his head as he snuggles his chin into the angle between her shoulder and throat, softly rubbing his beard against her cheek. Immediately responding, she leans into his embrace, her hand automatically finding its natural place upon his, intertwining their fingers, pressing his hand gently against her stomach, her fingers caressing his knuckles.
Shifting slightly, she slides down on her back settling closer to him, lifting their joint hands to her lips before letting go, in order to raise hers to cup his head instead, urging him close enough for her to be able to reach up for their lips to meet.
Teasingly, she places a series of small, light kisses there, sometimes just letting her tongue play gently over his lips, her fingers toying with his beard. Responding eagerly, Boyd tries hard to answer her kisses but every time he seems to get a hold on her lips she's moved. His hands begin to wander over her body, and soon one finds its way under the edge of the sweater and further, reaching under her blouse to linger against her naked skin.
Becoming impatient, he moves, swiftly locking her head in place with his free hand, keeping her still exactly where he wants her, and now with free access to her mouth, able to prevent her torment, kissing her slowly and thoroughly.
Surrendering into his caresses, Grace lets her hands wander too, gliding enthusiastically and untucking his shirt from his trousers before starting to undo the buttons. Pushing the fabric away from his broad chest, she moves her fingertips over his skin in tiny circles before reaching around to his back, pulling him closer to her.
Coming up for air, he lets go of her mouth, breathing heavily he whispers, "Warm enough to let go of the sweater?"
Without answering, she proceeds to push the material from his own shoulders, an action he takes as a confirmation, moving both his hands to the hem and pushing the sweater up her body to bring it over her head and off, taking the blouse she's wearing beneath with it at the same time.
With almost free access to her upper body, Boyd immediately turns his attention to her bra, trailing his index finger first along the strap, then on to the edge in front before sliding beneath it to cup her breast, squeezing it greedily.
Moaning, Grace bends one leg slightly, something he immediately takes advantage of, leaning even closer, sliding his leg over hers to rest between her thighs and moving a hand to her waistband, gently pushing the material down. With unhurriedly touches he caresses the soft skin of her belly, moving his fingers slowly downward, lingering at the edge of her knickers, before continuing towards his goal.
Promptly mirroring his actions, she reaches for him, her hands finding his zipper, undoing it easily, tugging his trousers down over his hips so that soon he is where they both desire him to be.
Breathless, they lie tangled for a very long time, hardly exchanging a word now, simply enjoying physical proximity, the quietness in the room, and caressing each other with slow, lazy touches, only disrupted by the crackling sound from the fireplace.
"You're getting cold," Boyd establishes, noticing her shiver, trailing a finger up and down her arm. "There're goosebumps all over your skin," he remarks, placing a series of soft kisses along her shoulder. He stretches, and then gently starts to move his long limbs, untangling them from the blankets, pillows and her body.
Cuddling closer to his naked body, Grace whispers, "Don't go," extending an arm, trying to reach for a blanket to cover them again but without any luck.
Nuzzling softly under her ear with his nose, he mumbles, "I need to stoke the fire if we don't want it to go out." Dipping down, he places a lingering kiss on her lips, before slipping from her arms, getting up on his feet. Walking to the fireplace, he squats to stir up the embers, before putting on a new log and waiting for the flames to catch.
Shivering, and immediately missing the warmth of his body, she half sits and reaches for the blanket. Curling into a ball, she covers her shoulders with it, and, encircling her arms around her bent legs and resting her chin on her knees, she studies Boyd. Kneeling down in front of the fireplace, his outline is sharply silhouetted by the glow from the flames. It's almost like a golden... halo… shines around his head. It's interesting, but maybe not completely appropriate, though – there's nothing saintly about him.
Suppressing the unexpected image that forms in her mind, and a giggle that wants to escape at the thought, her gaze slowly moves down to his shoulders. Sadly she really can't distinguish the details of the muscles – the light is far too indistinct to make such observations – but the outline is sharply defined by the shifting flames, as are his arms. As her eyes slowly follow the outlines of his upper body, she recalls the odd clothing from earlier, the bright shirt with the printing on it.
Still wondering how on earth it came into his possession, and without thinking, she asks, "Tell me…"
"Tell you what?" he replies, turning towards her as he gets up from his bent position, smiling easily.
"Indulge me, Peter, please," she says steadily. Catching his eyes she holds his gaze. "Tell me about that shirt."
He falls quiet for a moment, apparently contemplating what to say.
Suddenly he sets into motion; with a few energetic steps he moves to the shelves covering the back wall of the living room, searching for something among the many books. Reaching up, he takes down a big photo album, bringing it with him as he returns, eagerly running through the pages. With a triumphant, "Ah ha!" he sits beside her again, making himself comfortable close to her and placing the book on her lap, pointing. "Look, Grace." Rapidly his finger drums on the photo, "there you are."
Curious, she studies the picture. It's quite old, and the colours are a bit faded, but it's him. Definitely him. So young – Baby Boyd she's inclined to think, but it's not a name she'd ever voice out loud, though. Lips sealed, highly amused, she chuckles gently to herself. If only he knew... But, thank God, mind reading isn't among his skills.
"I knew I had a picture of that shirt somewhere," he exclaims, looking very pleased with himself.
"Aww, look at you," Grace peers at the photo, then looks up at him, tilting her head, smiling and settles with the more appropriate comment of, "so young... so very young."
"Yeah," he continues, remembering. "Luke was not quite a teenager. It was just before…" He pauses, sighing deeply. "Just before everything began to go wrong for us. A summer holiday in America, and of course," he pauses again, shrugging," we went to Disney World. Luke fell in love with the shirt, wanted it so much, and when he found an adult-size too he got even more excited. He wanted me to have it as well, so..."
He runs his right hand over his eyes, and down over the rest of his face, rubbing his beard as he draws in a long, deep breath before letting it out slowly. Almost inaudibly, he says, "He still looked up to me back then, still wanted to look like his dad."
"Father and son dressed alike," she muses, and, reaching for his hand, she squeezes it. "What happened then?" she asks, waiting quietly until he replies, sensing that there is more to the story.
"Mary was pregnant when we got home. It was unintended. She wanted an abortion – didn't want any more children. We had a huge row, to say at least. So many rows. Christ!" Lost in his own thoughts he sits in silence, staring without focusing on anything, only his somewhat ragged breathing betraying the tumult in his mind
Nodding thoughtfully, Grace asks a gentle, "Mary had the abortion?"
"Yeah, didn't even tell me before it was over and done with!" The words are spoken so quietly Grace is hardly able to hear him, but his grip around her waist tightens.
"I'm so sorry," she whispers, turning in his arms to face him, snuggling against him and placing her hand on his cheek, thumb moving caressingly.
Resting his forehead against hers, eyes closed, he fumbles to find the right words. "It was… such a... mess." Squeezing her hand hard, he falls silent for a long time.
Grace stays still and quiet, letting him work through it in his own time.
"It's all just memories, from times long gone, but now that I know what happened to Luke…"
She knows what he's trying to say. Knows how important those memories are, how much he needs to hang on to the good times.
"Mary's married again and is – as far as I know – happy in her new life in the States," he says. It's not new information, but it seems significant to him as he says it, as though he is finally accepting it. Making a small sound urging him to go on with his story, her fingers trailing soothingly through his hair. "Luke is… dead… and there isn't anything I can do about it."
Acceptance, at long last. It's a monumental step, she knows. "No," she agrees softly. "Sadly not, but you can cherish those memories."
Encircling his arms around her, tucking her close, he whispers almost inaudibly, resting his chin on her head. "I know, Grace... I know."
"Tell me about him," she suggests softly.
Feeling how every muscle in his chest and arms tighten for a moment, she tilts her head to be able to study him.
"When he was a little boy. What was he like?" she continues softly, gently nudging as he remains in silence.
Starring into the dancing flames, Boyd apparently is lost in thoughts. Exhaling, he seems to relax, a soft smile starts playing on his lips, and grows wider as he begins. "When he was eight, he was obsessed with spiders," he begins, "and..."