16. Eater of His Muffins
EATER OF HIS MUFFINS
Jonathan quit counting after the third time he woke at Connor’s house. It was inevitable.
After all, there was a dog, and now there was a Jonathan toothbrush on the counter and Jonathan pajamas folded on the dresser.
Last night they’d slept with their fingers brushing across the duvet.
This morning, Connor made fried egg sandwiches on sourdough, topped with a high melting point European cheese and spicy sauteed greens from his garden.
Jonathan was exceedingly relaxed and well-fed, and thus able to refrain from fixating on the fact that Connor had a garden that provided edible greens, like a real grown up.
Jonathan had brought clothes, which meant he could stay longer with this stupid anteater coffee mug and go directly to work. If he didn’t love his job so much, he wasn’t sure he could leave. He had bills, there was that.
He should get up from this chair and put his plate in the dishwasher at some point. Soon.
“I’m investigating my crawl space today.”
He stared at Connor as the words he couldn’t possibly have heard correctly filtered through his brain.
“What even does that mean? Investigating? I shelve far too much true crime and I know that’s where the serial killer who owned this house in the 1980s buried victims. Are you looking for bodies? This is not okay, Connor. Not okay.”
“I’m only anticipating spiders and a few stray concrete blocks. Maybe a raccoon den if I’m unlucky.”
He shuddered. “I lived in New York City. I rode the subway. There will be rats.”
“My house is in Eugene. No subway. No rats.”
“I’m going to work, very soon. Sooner than I thought. I’m going before you do this thing.”
“Do you want to take muffins with you?”
“Obviously, yes. How many are you offering.”
Connor shrugged. “A half dozen?”
Lily and Boss Becca would be awed. “Better that I take them than all the rat chefs living under your house.”
“Of course, that’s the only reason.”
By the time Jonathan had his break, Connor must have finished the icky home maintenance work, because there was a text waiting.
Connor
It’s Pride to morning
Tomorrow
Jonathan
I know. I have assembled the YA book displays.
Connor
Want to participate in organized, cheerful debauchery to support your community
Jonathan
Debauchery? Please.
Pride is a completely commercialized family event with more face painting than a school carnival.
Connor
No argument
But you work at a place thats a 24/7 family event
So are we going
Jonathan
If we must.
Connor
It is important cuz we’re still not equal
Jonathan
Believe me, I know. Even here we get complaints about “those dirty books.”
Two male chinstrap penguins sitting on an egg are poopy, but not dirty.
I apologize for the rant. As a librarian I have a lot of opinions.
Connor
So we’re going to Pride and we’re making signs and reveling.
What are we wearing
Should we match
Jonathan
You do it on purpose. I know you do.
Connor
What
Jonathan
Leave off the punctuation.
He wanted to retrieve that text, but it was too late.
He was a pretentious asshole. At this point, that wasn’t new information for Connor, and Connor still texted him at Herman Melville levels, so while Jonathan could try to be less perfect, he could also try to stop worrying that his obsession with periods and commas would chase Connor away.
Connor
I am 26 not 76
Jonathan
You suggested matching, as if you were 76.
Connor
Come over tonight and make free with my closet
Style me up please
Jonathan
Was that a typo that was supposed to be spelled tie me up?
Why had he hit send? This man was ruining him.
Connor
It is new
New
I mean now
Lily pounced into the break room, collapsed into her own chair and spun it in a full circle. Her stare went back and forth between Jonathan, his phone, and the container of muffins on his desk. She was more transparent than the clear plastic. “What did you bring me?”
“Lemon poppyseed.” He removed the lid and her hand darted out making grabby claw motions before he could extend the container.
“Connor made them?”
“He did.” A smidge of muffin caught on the corner of Lily’s mouth, so Jonathan tapped his finger to his own lips. “They’re just his day-olds, though.”
“Ohmigod, they’re so good, but you’re all, just his day-olds.“ She made more exaggerated chewing sounds.
It was a muffin, not some sort of crunchy chips, so those sounds coming from her were unnecessary.
“I would like to apply for a new job. Consumer of Connor’s day-olds. Eater of his muffins.”
Jonathan let his eyebrows climb and covered his mouth with his fingers before he whispered. “That is not our kink.”
Her chin dropped almost to her chest and she turned red. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean—”
Too perfect. He had her.
“You jerk.” She lifted her hand as if to throw the empty muffin wrap at him but stopped. “I forgot my lunch. Give me another and I’ll forgive you.”
It was close to nine that night when Jonathan cuddled next to Connor on the nubby tan couch.
They had drawn signs to carry in tomorrow’s parade, cooked an eggplant adobo recipe from The New York Times, and cleaned the kitchen.
Connor had drunk a beer with the Filipino dish and opened a sauvignon blanc for Jonathan.
The unfinished portion of the bottle now waited in Connor’s refrigerator for their next night in.
He’d advanced a square to have both a dedicated toothbrush and a bottle of wine. The only part of stereotypical domestic bliss missing was a television playing a sporting event enjoyed by half of the people in the room.
He would neither say nor think the word “couple,” but he understood that even refusing to do so was a self-defeating action.
Defeat that looked like a half-glass of crisp white wine and his thighs thrown across Connor’s lap was extremely difficult to accept. Extremely.
“We’re a good sign-making duo.” Connor sounded very satisfied and possibly even more relaxed than Jonathan.
He’d finally opened the door to the second bedroom, revealing Blondbeard’s secret lair as a craft room that included bins of patterned papers, pull-out shelves of paints and markers, wrapping materials, and even a vinyl cutting heat press machine, but no sewing machine.
Jonathan had one, as anyone interested in costumes and clothing that fit properly should, but he kept that information to himself.
Telling Connor about his sewing machine would be normal sharing, although Connor might want to come over to Jonathan’s apartment to use it, and his place wasn’t nice enough.
He stared at the way Connor had folded a fuzzy blue blanket across the back of a spare armchair, and dug his teeth into his lower lip. There was so much more to do before he could have Connor or Lily in his space.
“Hey, our signs are excellent,” Connor ran his thumb along Jonathan’s lip, releasing it from the tension. “On point.”
Jonathan had made a sign about the joys of reading queer books, obviously, and Connor had opted for the word “PRIDE” with letters composed of sports images and out athletes.
Connor’s hand stroked his arm very close to his tattoo, a caress that was starting to become habitual as Connor flirted with the edges of the design, outlining the leaves but never touching the colored portions. “You have Grade A choice crafting skills.”
“Are you rating me like beef or eggs.” He curled closer to Connor, laying more of his shoulder and torso across Connor’s body. Luckily, he was flexible enough to pretzel onto this man and maintain a well-balanced wineglass braced on his thigh.
“Well, I grew up on ranch, so which do you think?” Connor shifted to align himself with Jonathan’s body, instead of facing forward. He nuzzled into the hair above Jonathan’s ear. “My family raises excellent wagyu cattle. They fill my freezer with exceedingly good ground beef. Very juicy.”
“That I understand.”
“I figured.” Connor’s hand was growing heavier on Jonathan’s arm, slowing down, and the space between his words lengthened.
Jonathan felt the same lassitude. Enjoying a Friday night together on a couch must have a much deeper meaning than he could articulate to himself at this moment.
Connor continued quietly speaking. “One thing left for tomorrow.
“Hmm?” The hand trapped between his body and Connor’s thigh could feel the hot skin, firm under his fingers and covered with tickly little hairs, where Connor’s shorts exposed his leg.
“Don’t know what to wear.”
Jonathan had packed a larger-than-usual overnight bag, because the difficulty of planning for parade clothing was not hypothetical. “Wear whatever you want, it’s Pride. But if you don’t want me to pray for Bob The Drag Queen to excommunicate you, don’t say things like—”
Connor leaned closer to Jonathan and lowered his voice. “Matchy-matchy?”
“Nooo.” He tried to cover his eyes, but it was awkward while holding a wine glass.
“Yes.” One of Connor’s big competent hands took away Jonathan’s glass and reached across to set it on the coffee table.
Connor used a book as a drink coaster, and no matter how much his fragile librarian heart wanted to ache at the potential of a damp raised ring left on a book cover, Jonathan honestly couldn’t complain.
Connor had books, stacks and piles of books, and he also read e-books and audiobooks and he talked about books.
“You’re so easy to rile up.” He gripped Jonathan’s legs and drew them farther into his lap, until almost all of Jonathan’s body was on top of him.
“I am not. I truly am not.”
“You truly are.” He cradled Jonathan’s head with one hand, and his lips fluttered across his jaw. Jonathan felt his eyes drift closed and he leaned deeper into Connor.
This. This.
“How about if you choose my outfit? You could make me pretty like the anteater mug says.”
He imagined Connor in short shorts, a deliciously indecent four-inch inseam on those bulging thighs, or maybe taking him the other direction, putting him in a frilly white shirt and letting his butt stretch a pair of tight dress pants.