10. Nothing Unusual
NOTHING UNUSUAL
The first time he stayed at Connor’s house, which was the night after Connor had walked into his library and bumbled through an apology in front of what had felt like the entire cast of all seven seasons of Buffy, Jonathan realized several truths.
It was the first time, but likely not the last time, he was going to stay at Connor’s.
Also, as soon as he’d put the other man’s address into his phone, he should have swung by his own apartment and gathered his skin care and a change of clothing, because here he was on Thursday morning, naked under Connor’s taupe-colored duvet, contemplating exactly what to wear in order to exit this lovely room.
He’d happily linger to enjoy the vintage wood floors, refinished to a gloss that didn’t erase their dense grain and aged patina, the creamy sage-colored walls that softened the light streaming through the windows, the mismatched oak furniture, and the fully stocked bookshelves that beckoned from the gable, but he needed coffee.
And a toothbrush. And the bathroom. And clothes.
And something, maybe a shot of peach vodka or at least an oxygen mask, that would calm his racing heart. In addition to last night’s planning failure, Jonathan should have anticipated that Connor would throw everything he’d known about himself, other men, and even pets into a blender.
A large dog could like him, and refrain from barking or pawing at him.
A large, goofy man who was more than somewhat similar to his own dog, albeit with far better pawing skills, could swing Jonathan onto a bed, lick and rub his body until he melted, and also—this remained surprising even though it had now happened more than once—beg to be fucked.
And they could laugh during sex.
They could laugh after sex.
They could laugh while brushing their teeth.
This whole sleepover was shocking, but not bad. Possibly nothing that happened in a room with bookshelves, pale green walls, and gauzy curtains could be bad, but the new information Jonathan was learning about himself might qualify as shocking.
Coffee and acceptable clothing would make it all so much less shocking.
He heard clomps and creaks from the stairs.
As soon as he’d entered the house last night, he’d noticed the central staircase, its gorgeous old fir treads slightly askew, but with glossy white, unscuffed risers and one of those railings with white pickets and a dark-stained handrail that made Jonathan want to sweep down them while delivering a soliloquy.
Connor’s house was a gem, and he tried not to compare it to his apartment, really tried. He was new to Eugene, and Connor wasn’t. He’d started college later, started working later, so he wasn’t a failure for living in an apartment instead of in this cute Craftsman cottage.
Then Connor bounded into the bedroom carrying a coffee mug, alleviating the immediate need for clothing. “You’re up!’
“So it appears.”
“Already had my workout.” That explained his obnoxious glow and the loose black shorts slipping below his navel as he stretched to offer Jonathan the coffee.
It did not explain the shirt, its arm openings sloppily cut to mid-rib and its neckline slashed half-way through the rainbow-colored guitar printed on the front so that it exposed Connor’s chest to a point well below the start of his blond pelt.
No words could explain an adult with a mortgage who wore that shirt, absolutely nothing could, except possibly participation in a revival of an umlaut-flinging heavy metal hair band.
“Did I get it right?” Connor gestured at the coffee Jonathan held but had not yet sipped.
He glanced at the mug. “I don’t know, are you the World’s Best Teacher, Connor?”
“Of course. But the coffee?”
He glared at Connor’s ridiculous smile. “Black like my soul?”
“Nah, you like it with a hint of cream.”
Jonathan could name the time and place of each of the four coffees they’d shared.
Espresso over dinner in Portland, coffee in the room the morning after, another at Voodoo Donuts, and then cold brew yesterday afternoon.
It was not a surprise that Connor remembered how Jonathan liked his coffee, almost everyone would at this point.
It was a common order, nothing unusual, so this shouldn’t feel like something.
“You’re right.”
He took a sip and stared at Connor. If he looked hard enough, truly committed his gaze to the other man, he could make him blush.
“I was working out. I do that in the morning. Garage in the gym, I mean, gym in my garage, so.” Connor shifted his weight from his right foot to his left, and back, and lifted his empty hand as if he thought he also had a coffee. “So, yeah.”
Jonathan said nothing. He sipped and stared, and Connor blushed. Absolutely without fail. Halfway down his torso, at least. Brighter than his chest hair where it stuck out from that horrendous piece of fabric pretending to be clothing.
“Gonna hop in the shower.” Connor plucked the offending thing away from his stomach. “Or maybe I should make cinnamon-vanilla brioche French toast?”
Worth the limitations of Connor’s skin care products, worth the dog hair that was inevitably going to cling to his messenger bag, even worth putting yesterday’s briefs back on.
Last night Connor had proved he wasn’t exaggerating his cooking skills, and Jonathan remembered the conversation where he’d claimed brunch was his specialty.
“I need something to wear.”
“Borrow something of mine.” Connor looked excited, then sheepish over his own obvious excitement, then he pulled open a middle drawer on the oak dresser. “Here, this is honestly too small for me.”
He shook out what was a less slashed but still sleeveless gray cotton shirt with a plain text version of the university baseball team’s logo on the front.
“No.”
“It’s clean!”
“I don’t doubt that, but I do not want that particular gray to sap my current energy.”
That got him a raised eyebrow. He enjoyed Connor’s eyebrows, which were enough shades darker than his hair to be distinctive, even if they had obviously never inhabited the same zip code as an aesthetician.
“What about this?” Connor held up a yellow mesh thing, but it was not a thing that Jonathan would consider clothing. It had a rectangular shape, with arm holes and a neck opening, but it could not be called a shirt.
From deep in his youth, Jonathan recognized this as a form of sports gear that people wore to distinguish one team from another, and thus he suspected that Connor was teasing him. “I do not wear yellow.”
“But mesh? You would wear mesh?” His open and sunny face could look devilish when he tried, but it could not look subtle. He was teasing.
Jonathan took another sip of his coffee, then answered. “You have seen me wear mesh.”
“Right, the black shirt. It was like if a honky-tonk shirt decided to come out as a gay club outfit. It was pretty nice.” His feet did a shuffle step and a hip circle, as if attempting to dance along with his words, which should not be so cute that Jonathan felt his muscles soften and suddenly worried about dropping his cup.
This guy. So fucking charming. What the fuck.
Then Connor hunted in a different drawer and whirled to show him an extremely large white T-shirt with rainbow-colored letters in a balloon font spelling PRIDE. “You can’t complain about wearing this.”
“You are correct, I cannot complain about that. If I was, say, a nineteen-year-old female H Connor let himself be moved, so they both faced the bedroom door. “Go make brunch while I find clothes. I want that French toast I’ve heard about.”
“Okay.” He twisted in Jonathan’s arms and looked at him.