Sunkissed

Half-consciously, Lance rolled over and reached his arm across the bed, pausing mid-stretch when he found the other side of the bed unexpectedly empty. Patting blindly, he found the sheets only slightly warm beneath his palm, an indication that although he hadn’t slept alone, the other side of the bed had been empty for a little while. Lance inhaled deeply as he buried his face in the pillow, the warm cotton smooth against his skin.

As he reached above his head, stretching his arms in earnest, he lazily opened his eyes. Where he’d been expecting sunlight to be flooding through the thin white curtains, the room was still shaded, veiled in grey.

Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he quickly glanced at the alarm clock and the reason for the unexpected darkness became apparent. 6:03 am.

Yawning widely, and wincing as his jaw cracked loudly in his ear, he rolled across the bed and swung his legs over the side, careful to avoid stepping on the dog-eared copy of The Catcher in the Rye that was lying on the floor.

With some difficulty, he stumbled over to the closet in his sleep-induced haze and dug through the top shelf - his by default of his height advantage - until he found a pair of flannel pyjama pants. As he slid them on, he noticed the finger-shaped bruises marking the otherwise pale skin of his wrists. He brushed his fingers over them, pressing gently with his index finger and feeling a dull pain from the pressure. With a smirk, he pulled a hooded sweatshirt off the nearest hanger. The sweatshirt was worn, faded, and -- from the writing adorning the front of it -- very obviously not his. But he wore it so often that regardless of the cracked and faded letters spelling out "Black and Blue 2001" across his chest and a name that was not his own along his left bicep, it might as well have belonged to him. It really was more his size anyway.

It wasn’t until he stepped into the bathroom that Lance realized he'd expected to find it occupied, though the steam on the mirrors made it apparent that it had been used fairly recently. Lance smiled as he reached for his toothbrush, noticing a happy face drawn into the mirror above the sink. He took a moment to retrace the shape with his own finger and add a head full of spiky hair to the top of the drawing.

Spitting and rinsing the burn of the toothpaste from his mouth, he scrubbed his hands through his hair and forewent a shower in the interest of hunting down his missing boyfriend. He walked quietly back into the bedroom, as though he expected to suddenly find someone asleep in the bed, and set about carefully straightening the room, making the bed and picking up some of the things that had fallen to floor the previous evening: the small bear that Lance gently poked in the stomach before he put it back on the pillows, the book he’d nearly stepped on earlier, and a few articles of clothing that had been discarded rather carelessly.

The apartment was completely silent, Lance noticed, as he made his way out of the bedroom, pausing in the living room to flick the switch on the fireplace. There was an unexpected chill in the Florida air this morning.

As he walked through the apartment, Lance quickly glanced out at the balcony and was surprised that it too was empty. Shivering as the plush carpeting beneath his feet gave way to clean, cool tile, Lance paused, listening for sounds of movement.

Behind him, he could hear only the humming and crackling of the fireplace and the gentle bubbling of water in the aquarium. If he didn’t know better, Lance would have been entirely convinced that he was alone in the --

Smiling and nodding to himself, Lance interrupted his own train of thought and walked over to the balcony, sliding the glass door open and looking out to the water below.

It was still dark, dawn not yet visible along the horizon, and a thick fog hanging low in the sky. And sitting on the pier in the distance, Lance could see the silhouette of a familiar figure intently watching the waves roll into shore.

Walking back toward the kitchen, his steps quicker and lighter, Lance pulled open the refrigerator. He moved the bottled water aside, dug past a far greater number of bottles of ketchup and hot sauce than should ever be found in one refrigerator, and moved the neatly stacked columns of Tupperware full of -- presumably -- leftover meals to the shelf below. Curious, he pulled out a jar of blackberry jam that he remembered putting in the refrigerator sometime after Christmas. Making a face at the unidentifiable white layer that had begun to form inside the jar, Lance placed it on the counter and pulled a jug of orange juice and a bottle of Perrier out of the refrigerator. Kicking the door closed, he placed the two containers on the centre island. Turning his attention briefly back to the jar, he twisted the cap off and sniffed warily. Making another face, he emptied the contents into the garbage disposal and tossed the bottle into the blue bin under the counter. It landed atop the other glass bottles and jars with a loud noise that echoed through the empty apartment.

It appeared as though a burst of fung sheui had had been responsible for rearranging the entire layout of the kitchen since the last time he’d been there and it took Lance two tries to find the glasses. When he did finally manage to locate them, in the cupboard where the blender and the breadmaker used to be, he pulled two off the shelf and poured each one three-quarters full with juice, then filled them nearly to the top with sparkling mineral water.

Grabbing his keys off the counter, he hooked the keychain into the waistband of his pants, picked the two glasses off the counter, and headed for the elevator.

Lance stopped as he walked through the front hall, the same way he did every time. The wall, covered in plaques and pictures was a scrapbook of sorts, a kind of visible chronology of the last 10 years. It wasn’t his history -- although aspects of his own did share a striking resemblance -- but there were pieces of him there. Tiny things, like pictures he’d taken of people and places, or photos from events where the two of them had been performing -- though he was never pictured in any of the photos. And there, in the bottom corner of the personal photos that lined the front entryway, was a photo that had been added since the last time he’d properly examined the walls. A photo of the two of them. Alone together. Taken last December, sitting side-by-side on the beach in Puerto Rico, barely touching, except for their hands, fingers twisted together and resting half-hidden in the sand and tropical plants between them.

It was a long walk down the pier to the L-shaped end that stuck out into the water, and halfway down Lance found himself wishing he’d stopped to put shoes on before he’d ventured outside. The wood felt rough on the soles of his feet, and occasional grains of sand crunched noisily beneath his toes.

When he reached the end of the pier, Lance saw the first sign that his approach had been noticed -- a small head tilt in his direction. Quietly, Lance bent forward and placed a quick open-mouthed kiss on the top of Howie’s head and handed over one of the glasses of orange juice. He watched as Howie took his first sip and smiled at the familiar expression that came across his face. When he saw Howie’s brown eyes squint shut tightly and his nose crinkle as the bubbles tickled it, Lance couldn’t help but lean over and place a small kiss on his nose.

Setting his glass on the pier, Lance sat down and pulled Howie close to his chest, settling him between his legs. Wrapping his left arm around Howie’s waist, Lance combed his fingers through Howie’s hair, dragging them through the still damp curls and gently ghosting his fingers along the base of his neck, tickling lightly and enjoying the feel of warm skin beneath his fingertips. As he traced gently along the collar of Howie’s shirt, Lance was mindful of the few bruises he could see peeking out from under the collar, swirling his fingers around them gently.

He continued his path down Howie’s neck, across his shoulders, and down Howie’s left arm to grasp his fingers and pressed a kiss into the back of Howie’s neck.

Behind him, Lance heard the wind rustling lightly through the leaves. Overhead, he could hear a seagull crying in the distance. In front of him, he could hear the waves rolling toward the shore and feel the cool water lightly mist his face as the waves crashed into the pier. Unwrapping his arm from around Howie, Lance reached for his glass and took a sip. He blinked as the bubbles travelled up his nose and he inhaled deeply, his eyes closing involuntarily. It was saddening sometimes, that he could forget what a Florida morning smelled like. Cool and damp and like the ocean. So different from the mornings he’d grown up with, but ones he’d grown to love in a different way.

After a moment of sitting, eyes closed, Lance felt the gentle pressure of Howie’s hand on the back of his neck. He felt Howie's fingers tangle themselves in the short hair on the back of his neck and bent his head forward under gentle pressure from Howie’s palm. When he opened his eyes, he saw Howie with his head tilted back and a slow, lazy smile on his lips as he was pulled into a kiss. The kiss was quick, closed-mouthed and chaste, but warm and it left Lance with goosebumps on his neck and the taste of orange on his lips. Howie turned his head away and leaned back further, reaching for Lance’s right hand and pulling both of Lance’s arms around his waist, holding their entwined hands against his stomach.

There were so many things Lance wanted to say. He wanted to ask why he’d had to make his last trip home to Mississippi on his own, why he hadn’t been invited to come along to Paris next week, wanted to ask why he’d been left all alone in bed this morning, on a rare morning of sleeping in together.

But, he also wanted to ask when the beach photograph had been added to the hallway wall. What had changed? Why now, after all this time? And, maybe even tease Howie, just a little, about the jam sitting in the fridge, growing all sorts of unidentifiable fungi, when Howie didn’t even like blackberry jam.

But as he watched the sun begin to peek up from behind the horizon, creating a warm red-orange glow that hung in the sky, clinging to the morning mist, he didn’t say anything. He just buried his face in Howie’s neck and inhaled, his breathing in perfect synchronicity with the waves crashing into shore.

Thanks to Ian, for being my grammar guru, and for inspiring the title, and to Coreopsis, for making me sound better than I am.

Inspired by Howie’s house. Quotation taken (completely out of context) from "A Knight’s Tale".