Jon clutched Robb’s hand tightly to his chest, pressed the lot against fading scar tissue bit as claim over his heart back in June and bumped their foreheads together in a precious, nose-brushing Eskimo kiss. An apologetic, white-flag of pure truce sort, gesture chock-a-block with forgiveness. That connection transfixed Jon for a time. Myopic tendencies honing in on the smooth, comforting flesh so much warmer than his own, the touch of unblemished, callous-free fingertips.
How is it, despite the hiccups, we work so well when we are so very different? thought as he chased freckles across the back of model-quality hands. At the defining age of twenty-two his boyfriend carried only a single blemish upon an otherwise perfect body. From shoulder to elbow, three, equidistant gashes now permanent weals served a life-long reminder that every man was indeed fallible. Yes, a person could learn to hide their flaws. Say all the right things at any given moment, keep a tidy house and serve up delectable meals each night; don a shirt with three-quarter turn of the cuff to effectively mask imperfections but eventually, the tongue did slip. Floors needed sweeping and toast burned; shirts became dirty and stained. So what did it matter that Jon carried a dozen physical scars to Robb’s one? Or that he laboured beneath countless emotional and mental handicaps for that matter? Neither of them were sinless, lads equally responsible for the evening’s derailment but with a spot of help and a whole mess of faith in one another, arrival at ultimate destination didn’t need be delayed too, too much.
So, as they sat in silence and fading candlelight, fine and coarse beard hairs latching together like the soft and rough sides of Velcro, Jon decided.
“Alright.” Simply stated, a single word paired with a single nod all nervous ball of energy could manage for the burst of adrenaline shot through the heart at hearing himself consent.