Opening the white door to your bedroom, I think my entire body is shaking with a fierce anticipation that I didn't know I wanted. I worry you're hearing my bones rattle or my blood soaring through my veins. I hear that. Why wouldn't you?
You fling the door open and casually flip on the light switch. It's-

"This is it." You say, biting that already swollen lip. Swollen still from all the kissing earlier. You're biting it and fluffing it up even more. I don't think I can take this. You step inside, backwards, moving with a blind grace, stopping just far enough away from me to tempt me to crawl inside your private space. The sanctuary where you lay and sleep away from me, probably squealing into your pillow after we met. Touching yourself after we-

"Are you coming in or are you just gonna act like there's some kind of red velvet rope up in the way?" You giggled. You giggle like you haven't realized you just asked Nosferatu to come right on in. Or maybe you do realize, but you just find him passionate and handsome. Like Beauty and The Beast. I rush inside, right to you, putting my arms around your little frame and sinking my teeth right into the thick of your neck. You squirm and giggle some more through a slight moan. "Hey!"

Alright, alright, alright. I'll save it. I haven't even really gotten a good visual of your room, and I think that was something you expected me to do before carrying on sexually with you. I pull back, still holding you in my arms. Your room was a soft sage green, the carpet a cool light gray. Against the wall was a metal, industrial looking bed frame. Metal seemed like an intentional choice of rebellion against your father. I sense you're really trying to tell him to fuck off in a way that isn't verbal. You could never bring yourself to tell your dad to fuck off, could you? You're respectful to a fault. Even when you're cursing yourself for being so.
A desk that looks just as Facebooky as the end tables was opposite the bed, covered in books and paper. Your handwriting was boiling my blood, echoing the excitement from my groin in my ears. I've never seen it. Your handwriting, I mean. From here all I can see is vague marks on paper, graphite, pen. I can't see the details from here, and that is incredibly frustrating for a man who wants to absorb every detail about you. I wondered if in your off time from studying, maybe I distracted you, maybe you wrote a thing or two about me. And how I make you feel. How you can't stop thinking about me? I wonder.

"Oh, it's a little messy…" You laugh nervously, noticing my eyes glued to the sprawled paper.
"No," I reassure you without even thinking. I almost caught myself saying what I was thinking. How I wanted to read every thought you ever wrote down. Even if it was just regurgitated political science bullshit. I want to merge with you. I want to know every thought thoroughly.

"My shoes are usually not out like this either…" You sound so embarrassed. My eyes follow your thoughts to shoes, and a few pairs of pants litter the floor. It looks like you were in a hurry, trying different combinations. Now that I think of it, you are wearing something different than you were at lunch. Looks like I'm not the only one that stressed about what to wear to this first girlfriends date. You wanted to stand out in front of them, huh? I crack a smile, and you easily read that thought. "I couldn't decide what to wear to the bar date and I just ended up wearing something totally usual…"

"Bar date." I repeated back to you, just to make sure you yourself heard what you called it. A date with your friends and me.
You heat up against me and groan, "Yeah! It was a date. You can't say it wasn't a date, either, because it wasn't even our first date!" You are being so defensive about this date thing. Obviously, I know it was a date. I just didn't really know if you saw it that way after your stunt at lunch today…

I smile to reassure you. "I'm joking, I'm joking."
You beat your fist against my shoulder. "Ass! Don't joke like that!"
Before you could even tell me off anymore, I tilted your head up to me, kissing you gingerly. You seem caught off your game, stiff in surprise before you surrender yourself to me. Loosening against me.

As you pull back, I see another piece of furniture I didn't before. A large gentleman's chest placed against the wall. It was large, mid-century modern. Solid wood, intricate detailing and a cherry red stain. Dated? Maybe so. Maybe for you and Kairi, perhaps. But to your father? His father? Beyond all reasonable doubt, I would say not. Why do you keep this dinosaur in here, completely untouched by time and milk paint? It is a gorgeous piece. Timeless in its bone structure. Though, its mere presence seems to imply something incredibly soft about you, Roxas. Your love for your father, your family, its name. It seems to hold up even through doubtless pressure and hardship with them. You lugged this fossil of your father's father before him into this shitty little apartment off campus so you can hold a piece of them with you. Sentimentality right alongside your rebellion. Almost like you can't make up your mind or stick to your guns. But that's not quite it. It's your soft and unyielding heart. Your love.

I can only hope that in years' time, you hold onto my love for you like you hold onto this gentleman's chest. Keep me around, lugg me through apartments, or houses, or children, or financial hardship. Don't change me, keep me well kept. My love would be eternal. Just like this gentleman's chest, Roxas. I didn't think it was possible but seeing this cherrywood chest in your bedroom filled with metal and ikea, I've fallen even more in love with you than I was before.

I've been through people like you wouldn't believe. But I've never been through anyone with a heart like yours. I won't go through you. I will take you into me and never let you go.

"Oh!" You finally realize my eyes are locked deeply onto this heirloom furniture. "That old thing…" You seem to be worried that this furniture piece is going to ruin your street cred. Like I'm going to look at this and think you're uncool.

I scoff. "That doesn't look like it's categorized under a Swedish name."

"Yeah…" You shuffle around, turning to face it. "It was actually my grandpa's."

"Did your family company make it?"
"This-" You walk towards it and lean against it, gesturing with your hand. "Is a Remingway Original."
"It's-" I start, but you cut me off in a hurry.

"It's kind of super dated, I've been wanting to get this thing renovated forever but I can't seem to pick out a color or new hardware. Every time I try it just doesn't seem right for it, and I don't know why I keep bringing this thing with me when I go anywhere. It used to be in my bedroom at home, and I couldn't-"
"Woah." I smile. "I was going to say it's incredible."

"Really?" Your cheeks light up. Cherry, like the wood.

"We get stuff in the shop all the time, and I always hope something like this comes in. Mid-century modern is a classic look. Pretty much looks good in any kind of house with any kind of decor." I walk over to you, threading my hands through the hardware and giving a gentle pull.

"My grandpa actually made it to go into this huge mid-century modern house he and my grandma were moving into. But before they could move in, it actually burned down. My grandpa was adamant about getting rid of all the pieces he made for it." You shake your head, watching me pull open the drawers. "Dovetail drawers." You gesture with a cheeky grin. You were right, dovetail drawers indeed. A classy piece of furniture.

"Why would he want to get rid of them just because the house burnt down? He can put them in another house, right?" Or were they just that rich that they didn't want a new house with old furniture in it? Even back then…

"Well," You groan. This seems to be an annoying story for you. "My grandfather believed only mid-century modern houses could hold mid-century modern pieces."
"That sounds rather obtuse." I comment without thinking. Though, I'd wager you hold a similar opinion.

"Tell me about it." See? "My dad actually managed to hold onto this one. He took it from my grandpa in the eighties and held it in storage."

"So how did it wind up in your bedroom?" The wood smelled so old. Like dust, and faded memories.

"My mom found it before I was born and put it in my brother's nursery." Your face drops slightly, giving way to gravity. Perhaps you're more of a sad drunk. That sort of eliminates my theory on you hooking up so quickly with Brandon because you were drunk. Hmm. "It was gonna be thrown out…after. But I saved it and had it moved to my room." Had it moved. That, again, draws a strict line between you and I when it comes to class. If you knew more about my background, would that make me endearing to you? Would it make you think you can't really relate to me? Vice versa? Probably. Maybe it would.

"I love that about you." I say gently. That is an honest remark. It was hard to say through my own financial malaise. But I got it out, and I truly, truly meant it. "Your sentimental heart."
"S-" You seem completely surprised. "Sentimental? I don't know about that-"
"Absolutely." I say firmly. "You are very sentimental. But that isn't a bad thing."
"I don't think any guy wants to be told he has a sentimental heart." You puff out a laugh.

"Why not?" I challenge you. I'm good at challenging you. Perhaps if Marie Antoinette was challenged more often, she would have kept her head.
"I mean, that sort of implies that," You're forming a weak argument, and that's pretty obvious. "You know." You gesture vaguely.

"No. I don't."
"That…" I can't tell if you're calculating your words or trying desperately to formulate an argument that could succeed. "That a guy's…pretty weak." Oh. I hadn't thought that was something you were insecure about. Is it something you feel bad about? A contrast between you and your partners of choice. Hyper masculine dude bros have made you feel small and fragile in comparison. That's not true.

"I think it takes a really strong man to be so true to his heart like that."
"That sounds so corny and so rehearsed." You roll your eyes. Defiant. Interesting choice of emotion when I'm trying to reassure you.
"Look," I say, backing towards your bed before sitting roughly on your bed, wrinkling the comforter around my body. "Everyone has things they are sentimental and emotional about. But it takes someone who is assured of themselves and very confident to be so honest with themselves about what they feel and what they love." I pause to read your face. Unreadable. "And an even stronger person to be able to hold onto those things inside themselves no matter what."
Your face breaks into a shy smile. You are confident in some things about yourself, and I love those parts of you. You need to be more confident in your love for me. For us.

You seem taken aback by my little encouraging speech. I really haven't thought about the fact that maybe you see yourself as less of a man. Your closest friends are a group of girls. Some of which appear to be possessive over you. Maybe you don't think of yourself as a man. And maybe I haven't been treating you like you are one. And if you feel that way also, I have really messed up. There was an error in my thinking. Because, Roxas, first and foremost, you are a man. Probably more so than me. Is it truly manly to hide behind a belief that love doesn't exist? That's cowardly, and childish. Of course, you were out there. You were just waiting. Waiting as blindly as I was, but still searching for me.

I can't imagine the pain in knowing that for years, I wasn't even looking for you. When you were desperately keeping an eye out for me. Investigating man after man, wondering if it was really me. You made mistakes and got hurt because of the simple notion that it could have been me. If you see yourself as feminine, or less than a man, then what kind of Prince Charming would I be? I had the slipper and chose to use it as a flowerpot. How disgusting. If anything, you were my Prince Charming, and I was seconds away from suicide cleaning out chimney dust and cinder. You turned my life around and made me a man, Roxas. You've always been a man.

Your firm, you're lean and toned. You're soft, but only on that first layer of skin. My hands running up your shirt, around your stomach, feeling those bumps and muscles are proof of that. Your breathing hitches for a minute as I lightly run my fingertips around your nipples, responding to my touch. I think you're reading my mind through our contact. You know I'm highlighting your masculinity. You feel your own muscle and you're smelling your own natural musk mixing with mine.
Unmistakable. Masculine. You.

"You're-" You pause for just a moment. "Are you gonna just tease me?"

I laugh through my nose, spreading a tingle through your neck. "No."