December 24, evening.
Simon
I walk back from the bakery with Baz's cake in a box, all fancy with ribbons and stuff that Ebb insisted on but that I'll probably get rid of before I give it to Baz. Now I'm starting to second guess my choice of Paddington. I know Baz's family is British. He's always saying shit like bloody hell and I reckon and pardon. And I've always loved that bear. I love the idea of a little fuzzy bear traveling the world eating orange marmalade on toast, ready for the rain and hoping to be looked after.
When I was little, my dad would read me books in bed when I was sick. He was always really nice to me when I was sick. I realized at some point a few years back that he'd do stuff to make me get sick. We read about it in some class, that people do that, it has a name. It was weird to read about it in a book someone wrote who never met me. But that doesn't change the fact that my few nice memories are from him making me soup and reading me books when I was sick in bed.
And sometimes Baz reminds me of a little kid. Even though that makes no sense. He's so elegant, and so controlled, and so competitive and so smart. But sometimes he gets this earnest look on his face. And I swear it's like I can see back in time to a little Baz with the same hopeful look on his face. But now, as I walk back to the dorm, I'm realizing that the cake says more about me than I'd like. And that I'm not at all sure how he'll respond to something so… cute. So not sexy.
My slowly building anxiety is interrupted by the staggering mess that greets me when I walk into the dorm. The kitchen looks like it's been ransacked by a band of sugar-drunk toddlers. Every single pot and pan and spoon has been removed from the cabinets and drawers. They lie in heaps and trails across the counters, the sink, and the table. Every bottle of oil is out too, knocked over, empty. Three salt shakers. All empty. One little bottle of paprika, miraculously unharmed and still half full. Egg shells everywhere, like a chicken coop exploded. I stand in shock, trying to make sense of what could have possibly happened here.
When I look more closely at the table, I realize that the pots and bowls that cover it are upright. In one is a small pile of four boiled potatoes. In another is a messy stack of at last two dozen fried eggs, yolk dripping down the sides. And there are two plates, clean. With napkins. And silverware. Almost like…
"I made dinner!" declares Baz, who's been standing so quietly in the corner that I hadn't even seen him until he spoke. He looks at me expectantly. His open enthusiasm is so surprising that it takes a moment to register the words. My worries about Paddington are banished by that look on his face. The sweet look of a little bear hoping someone else will be as proud of his marmalade sandwiches as he is. Or, in this case, eggs and potatoes.
Baz
I've just finished setting the table when Simon walks in carrying an enormous beribboned box. He quickly drops the box, forgotten, onto the couch as he looks around in shock. I can't quite determine the valence of his expression. I stand quietly, waiting for him to say something, but then my excitement gets the better of me and I shout before I can stop myself, "I made dinner!"
His head swivels to me and his eyes find mine. They fill with a crazy warmth, and his face barely has room for his giant smile. Then he's standing next to me and his lips find mine and he's kissing me like we're in a sinking boat. I let myself sink too for a moment before I bob back up, floating on the bubbles of joy that explode when he touches me. Finally I pull back and tease, "not me, you twit. I made actual dinner."
And he laughs (like I knew he would) and says "yeah, I noticed," and then he's kissing me again.
Simon
He makes me stop kissing him, which would be more annoying if he wasn't so fucking cute about the whole dinner thing. Plus I am, of course, hungry. So we sit next to each other and devour the potatoes and eggs in between kisses and no food has ever tasted this good before. He actually blushes with pleasure when I say that and then I just have to kiss him again. Which he doesn't seem to mind, now that we've paid attention to dinner, so I do it some more.
When every bite of food is gone, we quickly move to our room. As our bedroom door closes behind us, Baz pushes me gently into it so that his arms pin me against the wall. I'm glad for the support as his mouth moves from my lips to my jaw, down my throat to my collar. My fingers shake slightly as I slide them under his shirt. Now his head falls back and it's my turn to graze his jaw, his ear, his throat. As he stumbles I pull him and we fall into my bed. Our breath is coming in panting gasps and he's so beautiful along my tongue. I feel everything. Every twitch, every tightening. I feel his desperate pulse and I know just when and where to touch him. I can hardly process what's happening what's just happened what oh what is oh and oh and then. Oh. and we're both coming, hard and hot and wet and long and like nothing and like everything and like light and dark and breath and fire.
Baz
Afterwards we sit wrapped in each other on my bed, too lazy to clean anything from dinner. Or from after dinner. Content to just switch mattresses and settle into each others arms.
I'm too happy to be scared about how fucking happy I am. I'm too content to worry about what happens next. I'm too sleepy to control my heart or my face or my hands. I'm too comfortable wrapped in Simon to wonder how this even happened. I'm too sure he feels the same to slip into self doubt. I'm too in love.
I've never been in love before and now I'll never be out of it. I love him. He loves me. Crazy. Crazy, stupid, sublime, breathless. Just thinking about it is turning me on again. And then I remember the ice cream.
I got ice cream for Simon, and suddenly it is very important that he knows. Actually, I got three pints of ice cream because I wasn't sure what kind he'd like. So I leap up, ignoring the surprise that crosses his face. I'm quite confident of being forgiven. I walk to the kitchen (completely naked. It's going to suck when people start getting back from break) and return immediately with my arms filled with ice cream.
Fuck. I forgot spoons.
Simon
His enthusiasm over his brilliant dessert planning is hilarious enough to make up for the indecency of walking out of here without a word, leaving me to watch his perfect ass and wonder what could possibly be more interesting than me right now. I do manage to convince him that instead of leaving again to get spoons, we should find some other way to pass the time while we wait for the ice cream to melt.
We take our time now. Slowly, slowly licking, nipping. Stroking. Leisurely pressing. Less leisurely pressing. More desperate. Rubbing, pushing. Then more. More pushing and moving and grinding and teasing and pinching and sucking and holding and probing and pushing and thrusting and rocking. And faster and slower and faster again. And faster and faster. And then so so slow.
The ice cream is cold and our skin is hot and everything aches in the most glorious way. We fall asleep sticky and then wake up and shower and then get sticky again and get clean again and finally fall asleep again. And we sleep and sleep and sleep. And sometimes we wake up and we kiss and then we sleep some more. Everything around us disappears. There is only this, only thus, only us, only me, only him, only skin, only love.