Chapter Thirty-Eight #2
Maybe it should feel a little odd, leading my forty-five-year-old boyfriend up the stairs and into my bedroom, the same room I’ve had since I was a child, although I did redecorate it five or so years ago when I realised I wasn’t going anywhere any time soon.
I also tidied it this morning before leaving for our run.
It still never fails to amaze me how well I can clean a space when I really want to and procrastination or distraction doesn’t interrupt my efforts.
And this is the best reward. Seeing Giles do a slow twirl as he stands at the foot of my bed, taking it all in.
“You’ve made it very cosy,” he says eventually.
“Kris helped me,” I explain. “She chose everything for the place we had together and I liked that so I asked her to help me pick some paint and curtains and new bedding for here.”
Giles touches the bedspread. “I’m looking forward to meeting her.”
“I’m looking forward to that too.” I feel my cheeks ache with how much I’m smiling.
I sit on the bed and reach for Giles, pulling him between my legs. Sliding my hands up the back of his legs, I feel him shiver.
“Marcello, we can’t… Not with your mother downstairs.” He places his hands on my shoulders and gives me a warning look. “Besides, I lied earlier. I actually do stink.”
I lift up his running vest and lick my way up his stomach, from belly button to the top of his abs. He's all salt and soap and Giles. “You taste pretty good to me.”
He grips my shoulder and pushes me back off his body. “But we really can’t. I don’t feel comfortable.”
I take in his serious expression. “Okay.” I smile, easily. “You want to shower first?”
“Yeah, or… I mean, we could shower together?” he asks with a little sheepish smile. “And not do anything, of course. I just like the idea of being close to you.”
“We can do that. But just so you know, we don’t have a rainwater shower like you do. We still have the one above the bathtub but I did upgrade it a few years ago so the pressure is good and there’s plenty of room in the tub for both of us.”
Giles pulls me up to stand. “Sounds perfect,” he says before pushing up and kissing me.
And it is. We wash each other slowly, lazily. We give our growing erections occasional squeezes and gentle tugs. Giles leans against my chest as I rinse shampoo out of his hair, and I close my eyes and hum out contented sighs as he runs conditioner through the ends of mine.
“I could get used to this,” I tell him when we’re towelling off together.
Giles doesn’t reply and after a few seconds I look at him, wondering why. He looks a million miles away as he sits on the closed toilet lid with a soft thud.
“Move in with me,” he says eventually.
The room is so silent I start to think I’ve lost my hearing. But then Mamma calls our names and tells us that our food is ready.
“That was silly,” Giles says, standing and tying his towel around his waist. “Forget I said anything.”
“No.” I put my hand on his forearm. “No way I’m forgetting that.”
“But it’s a bad idea, right?”
“Just a second,” I say knowing I need to call down to Mamma before I completely forget. I open the bathroom door slightly and yell down the stairs that we’ll be five minutes.
I close the door and return to Giles, my lover, my partner, fuck, my man.
“You really want me to move in with you?”
After a beat, he nods.
“You don’t want to wait? I’m… I’m not easy to live with.
My room doesn’t always look like that. I have to set seven alarms each morning.
I am a pretty good cook, but not so great at cleaning up after myself.
I get insomnia and some days, when I’m really overstimulated or overtired, I can go into myself and not say anything for hours and hours. ”
He takes my hand and squeezes it while keeping his swirling blue-green eyes on me.
“I don’t think I’m easy to live with too.
As you know, I clean. A lot. Too much. I can be rigid and controlling about where things go.
I have a pretty strict routine that I don’t like to deviate from, and I don’t like to stay up late and I like to wake early.
I eat the same meals over and over again, and I also have moments where I need to be alone and quiet. ”
I shrug and feel the corners of my mouth pull down. “It doesn’t sound like we’re very compatible.”
Giles takes my other hand. “I don’t know. If you’re a good cook and you don’t mind incorporating some of my preferred meals into your repertoire, I’d be more than happy to take on the clean up afterwards.”
I smile. “I can do that. And you say you have a strict routine, well, I sort of need that. It’s why I prefer living with someone else rather than on my own. If I know your routine and your expectations, that helps me stay more organised than I usually would be.”
“I would be happy to share my routine with you. And if I’m already awake early in the morning, maybe you don’t need to set all those alarms. I can wake you up with kisses.” He pecks my shoulder where drips of water still lie from my wet hair. “Or more.”
“Oh, that doesn’t sound so bad.”
“Maybe it will be good for me to live with someone who is a little messy, a little… less rigid than me.”
“And maybe it will help me feel less shit about those days I need to withdraw, if some days you need to do it too.”
He squeezes both my hands. “We just need to talk about it.”
“Yeah, like Mamma said.”
“Like your mamma said,” Giles repeats. A mist lands in his sea eyes. “I think I could grow to love your mamma.”
“I hope you do.”
For all the ways I didn’t doubt Mamma wouldn’t be judgemental or unwelcoming to Giles today, I didn’t think at all about how good this could be for both of them.
My mother will never be a mother-figure for Giles, and Giles will never be like another son for Mamma – and also, ew – but they could really be something to each other.
I bring our joined hands to my chest, as if to share with Giles just how hard and happy my heart is beating for him, for us, for the future.
“I don’t think I’m ready to move in just yet. I don’t want to leave Mamma so suddenly, not after I’ve just dropped this small bombshell on her. But I do want to. I really, really want to.”
Giles nods and grins at me. “We’ll talk about it again one day. When you feel ready.”
“Yes, we will,” I promise him, and I also promise myself. “Now come on. I want to make you wear my Italia 1994 football shirt and watch you eat all my mother’s food.”
His nose wrinkles slightly but it doesn’t wipe away the smile on his face. “Lead the way.”