Wednesday seemed to last forever.
Wednesdays, Pike always had early morning deliveries of lunch meat sandwiches and thanks to the Widow Thayer and her weekly non-existent chess tournaments, so he'd carefully inch out of bed, cursing sunlight that shone a little too bright in his eyes. Depending on the night before, Henry would lie asleep in bed, the sunlight reflecting on the tiny bald spot on the back of his head; lean arms wrapped around a sea of blankets that swallowed his small, lithe body whole.
He never looked more beautiful, Pike decided as he slowly got dressed, as then when we was lying on Pike's mattress.
But that brought up thoughts and memories that made him a little anxious and a lot tender, so he usually got dressed and tried to leave without so much as a goodbye. The hallway from his bedroom and the patio seemed to stretch for miles, and he's never made it without looking back.
He'd head back and enjoy breakfast in the kitchen, with an old yet valuable picture of his grandmother in a hand carved frame, and a plastic framed picture of Henry, smiling brightly next to Mary and her new baby. This way, he eats alone, but he is never lonely.
After, when Pike had stacked all the creamed corn cans and the cappuccinos had long gone cold, he stands around the register pretending to count the till, but instead he listens to the half-true gossip of crotchety old men. Sometimes they say something useful, like birthdays and the dates of important events, and other times they'd holler and brag about past conquests and quietly whisper about the loves of their lives. Sometimes the stories made Pike feel lonely, and then he'd think of Henry, which only made him feel lonelier and when he looked at the cuckoo clock in the corner, he's count the clicks until closing time.
Wednesday nights Henry stops by for dinner and long conversations that usually involve Pike telling stories from his childhood. Pike has never thought twice about them, but Henry sits and looks touched, as if the stories were written just for him, and Pike never tells it the same way twice. One day he might run out of stories, but until then he tells them the best way he knows how; with deep meaning behind every word. When Henry finishes his meal, Pike washes and dries the plates and pretends not to notice Henry making his way to the bedroom. There are always, always, too many plates.
When he's gathered up what's left of the silverware and his courage, he enters the room and his eyes struggle against the darkness. He doesn't wait to regain his sight because he knows what he'll see when he does, and it is almost as intimidating as the act itself. Henry is small and fragile against him, and he feels like the clumsy oaf he was in high school. There is caressing and grunting and skin, -glorious skin everywhere he can touch, so much that he doesn't know what to do with it and inevitably, the shameful mediocrity sets in but before he can bring himself to stop, Henry gasps and arches back and he whispers those words and almost simultaneously Pike shudders and groans and he feels nothing but salvation in the form of paint-stained fingers and thin lips and then nothing at all.
Afterwards, Pike is exhausted and relieved. Henry snuggles close, and sometimes if he feels particularly amorous, he will trail a hand slowly down Pike's chest, and Pike, using the last of his strength, will rock Henry to sleep with his thrusting until Henry's eyes are half-lidded with pleasure and then exhaustion, and then lets him unceremoniously collapse on his chest, and Pike is free to sigh deeply. Henry is the only person Pike has ever encountered who can make him feel young and middle-aged at the same time.
Thursday mornings Pike feels tired and the polyester shirts he is so fond of irritate the scratches on his back. Still, he goes through the day normally, if only a little grumpy. And even though pats on the back make him flinch and those nosy old men whistle obscenely when Henry walks by, and then laugh uproariously when Henry blushes and scampers away, his mind is only on next Wednesday, and he inwardly wishes Wednesdays really did last forever, because after Thursdays are Fridays, and on Fridays Henry drives down to the city and showcases his art, and he does not return until early Monday morning, and often there is so much to do that they do not spend much time together until Wednesday.
Like Wednesdays, Henry seems too far away, something unattainable, like the stars above that he somehow, miraculously, reached, just like those dancing children. And Pike can't help but wait patiently for Wednesdays simply because he knows with every passing shy smile and tender brief kiss that Henry waits patiently too. And he is grateful for every scratch on him, no matter how uncomfortable because-
Because maybe Pike is not everything Henry deserves; but he's what Henry wants, and that's more than he could have ever asked for.