32. Fans of Kale #2
Jonathan put something instrumental and summery on the wireless speakers and Connor felt a sharp need to have this moment, this exact moment with this beautiful, kind man and their pets and the anticipation of food he hadn’t cooked for himself, bottled so he could open it and sip from it whenever he wanted the feeling.
It was magical, and it continued to be magical. And by the time Jonathan served the summer pasta and splashed more pinot noir in Connor’s glass, that was good, too.
They weren’t drinking fizzy wine, but somehow his insides had become bubbly and light. They’d visited this winery together on their first cycling date, tasted this wine, and now it was something they drank together at home.
This was his life. It was really good, and it was promising to get even better.
This afternoon he’d said some I-statements out loud to himself, including “I was afraid” and “I am angry.” He was able to say he’d been afraid because he’d cuddled in Jonathan’s bed all morning, thinking hard and scrolling his phone on topics like male sexual assault, and fuck Tony.
But also, Tony didn’t win, Connor and Jonathan did. He had all this, and Tony didn’t.
All that bad shit felt like it was drifting off. Letting it go without a word felt appropriate, like getting away with a silent fart, only obviously a much bigger deal.
No need to share that observation during this very nice dinner, though.
“I see that your bookmark has advanced in Rebecca,“ Jonathan said.
“I like it, but wow, it’s way darker than what I usually read.”
“Are you comparing Rebecca to the genre of royal romances, or to Reacher?”
“Hey, I’m not criticizing.” He twisted on his stool and held up his hands in surrender, because challenging Jonathan’s love for this novel was the farthest thing from his mind.
“I know those are straightforward escapism, but don’t you get paid to be a cheerleader for all books, Mr. Judgey McBooksnob? ”
Jonathan narrowed his eyes and glared. “Fine.”
“Just, the deWinters are really screwed up, aren’t they?
The writing is beautiful and I keep thinking how much more complicated old books were compared to now, sentence structure, plot, everything.
But I’m not digging the age difference at all.
And power imbalances, bad.” He held out two fingers while he kept talking.
“And I like trees, but like, all the trees are bad.” Three fingers.
“Nature is bad, too. Now I’m a little bit afraid of your tattoo tripping me.
And whoa, household servants, very bad.” He’d reached five and flipped his hand in the air.
“Also, why doesn’t the heroine ever get a name? What’s up with that?”
“You forgot the uncommunicative male main character, also bad.” Jonathan sipped his wine and stared hard at Connor. His single upheld finger seemed to point directly at Connor, which probably wasn’t an accident.
“I’m trying to work out if I should be insulted.
” Dinner, wine, and Jonathan were combining to make him feel a bit muzzy.
Maybe Jonathan would order Connor to clear the plates.
Tell him to take his shirt off and wash the big bowl and the pasta pot and then Connor would be able to stop thinking. There had been too much thinking today.
“You’ll figure it out. What’s the sports cheer I hear at the field? I believe in you.”
“You don’t have to look like it’s horrifying. To believe in something.”
“Hey.” Jonathan set his fork on the side of his plate and covered Connor’s empty hand where it rested on the edge of the counter. “I believe in the Duchess of Sussex’s garden pasta.”
Oh shit, he could feel his eyes getting hot and maybe even wet and this sucked, this really, really sucked, when was he going to stop feeling so fucking weepy. He took a deep breath and held it and focused on his plate.
“I’m sorry.” Jonathan slipped off his stool to stand behind Connor and immediately wrapped his arms tightly around Connor until his hands clasped together in the middle of Connor’s chest. Like a safety harness. His boyfriend the safety harness. “I shouldn’t be so sarcastic. I’m so sorry.”
“No, you weren’t being mean. We were bantering and I love that, but I’m still feeling fragile.” He sucked in another deep breath. See, not uncommunicative, so there.
“You’re not fragile. You’re not.”
Jonathan squeezed harder than Connor would have expected, pulling Connor’s spine into his chest until he was pretty sure they had passed being mashed together and entered welded territory.
“You are strong and resilient.”
A long moment passed with no sounds but both of them breathing in sync, Jonathan’s face nestled between Connor’s shoulders, and Connor’s chest rising and falling within the circle of Jonathan’s arms. Even the animals were quiet. “Thank you.”
“Maybe you should talk with a professional?” Jonathan’s voice was low and smooth. He could feel the warm pass of his breath, the pressure of his hands and forearms, the weight on his spine.
“I asked the internet.”
Jonathan turned him on the stool and pressed their cheeks together. A huff of air went across the outside of Connor’s ear. “Not joking.”
“I know.”
Time continued, and Jonathan nuzzled his cheek and lips against Connor’s jaw.
He heard the rasp of his stubble. Three days since he’d shaved, no wonder his face itched and this was going to be a pain in the ass to get off.
Beard balm was the one type of product Jonathan didn’t have.
He’d have to go to his house and get his shaving stuff or become a yeti. Always fucking decisions.
Finally, Jonathan spoke. “You want to move to the couch and objectify some Bridgerton dukes now? Or just me?”
He leaned back on the stool so he could see his boyfriend. “Why choose?”
Jonathan’s smirk showed how much he loved it when Connor threw out tropes. “Have to put the kids away first though.
“Right. No objectifying on the couch in front of an audience.”
Much later, after Jonathan prodded Connor to move from the couch and they did the last Ribby walk together, after skin care and teeth because those were non-negotiable, and then after Jonathan’s comforting cuddles and petting had turned into slow hand jobs, they were in bed facing each other, feet tangled beneath the duvet.