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The scent of chocolate. And James humming. Those two welcomes hovered in the air, inviting him home.
Michael stopped, just inside the door. Set his suitcase down, as silently as he could. Breathed in, and listened, with all of his senses.
The radio kept playing the Beatles into the kitchen, and James hadn’t noticed, hadn’t heard the door, over the companionable rhythm and the humming. He was wearing his oldest jeans, slightly too long like most of his pants, and sock-clad toes peeked out from beneath faded denim, because James always did get cold too easily, even here at home.
He was studying the depths of a mixing bowl, at the moment. Stuck a finger in, pulled it out, licked white cream off golden freckles, thoughtfully. Michael forgot how to inhale again.
“Right,” James said, to the contents of the bowl, “you need more kahlua,” and then had to stand on tiptoe to reach the bottle, on the second-highest shelf. His shirt slid up. Revealed a scattering of freckles, and pale skin, considerately.
Michael might’ve whimpered out loud. Fortunately, John and Paul and George and Ringo were there to cover for him.
James looked happy. Cheerful. Not hurting, or withdrawn, or afraid. Baking, instead. And whatever was in the oven was making the whole world brighter with delicious anticipation.
Six months, Michael thought, watching, not moving, not yet. So much could change, so fast. Not easily—the weeks of counseling, scheduled when they’d both had the time, and the long nights of holding each other unspeaking in the dark, could attest to that—but for the better. He believed that. Could see the truth of it in unworried gestures and the merry way all the hair tumbled into wide eyes.
He’d been gone for seven weeks, this time. Filming on location. James had been working—another animated feature, in which, he’d gleefully announced, he’d get to sing—but, because it was a voice-acting part, hadn’t needed to go anywhere. Had been home, by himself, in their flat, in London.
Michael’d called, at least once each day, when he could. Texted, when he couldn’t. He’d thought it might be hard to remind himself; he’d always been more spontaneous, more ready to jump on any possibility that seemed like a good idea, plunging into every role with complete abandon, and he’d always told himself, previously, that James would understand, would comprehend why Michael might be too preoccupied with filming and co-stars and off-set bonding to check in.
It hadn’t been hard to remind himself, this time. He hadn’t needed to.
He’d imagined James back in their shared bed, small and surrounded by night-cold and pillows, and had had to stop himself from calling more. And that wasn’t only because he’d finally figured out that James needed the words, not merely the assumptions. And it wasn’t because he was afraid of what James might do, though that was there too, under the surface: he couldn’t lose James. Wouldn’t let that happen. Refused.
But his truest reason was simpler, and more pure, than that. He wanted to talk to James, at the end of the day. Every day.
The oven announced its finished task, abruptly, shattering the cozy quiet and Michael’s introspection.
James paused, turned around, caught sight of Michael in the hallway, and froze.
But only for a second. And then a compact whirlwind of muscles and blue eyes and freckles sprinted across the kitchen and landed solidly in Michael’s arms.
“You’re home early! You were supposed to be here six hours from now!”
“I got an earlier flight. Didn’t think you’d mind…” He was barely aware of what he was saying. Too busy trying to kiss James, everywhere. Every delectable chocolate-and-kahlua-flavored inch.
“Of course I don’t mind! I—mmm, do that again, my ear missed you, too—I was going to try to surprise you, though. I thought it’d be done before I left to pick you up. And—oh!”
“You said something about picking you up.” He settled James more securely in his arms, balanced between himself and the kitchen counter. They fit neatly there. Together.
“I did not,” James observed, “I was saying I’d meant to pick you up, at the airport,” but those familiar legs wrapped themselves comfortably around Michael’s waist anyway. “I missed you. And I love you.”
“I love you, too. What are you making?”
“Oh, no, the oven—!”
James wriggled impatiently; Michael, reluctantly, let him escape, for the moment. Followed him further into the kitchen, where all the appliances looked a little happier now that James’d returned to rescue the chocolate from fiery doom.
“It is,” James said, with some dignity, turning around with cake pan in hand, “a chocolate oblivion torte. With theoretical kahlua whipped cream.”
“Theoretical?”
“Well, you did interrupt me.”
“I’m sorry.” He wasn’t.
“I’m not.” James set the cake pan down to cool, and ran a hand through his hair, and stood there smiling at him, in the warm space between heartbeats. In the background, the Beatles sang giddily about wanting to hold someone’s hand.
Michael found himself smiling, too. Held out both of his own. And, when James took them, reeled him back in, gently, until they ended up together, face to face.
Along the way, he glanced at freckled arms, unashamedly revealed by the short sleeves of the worn t-shirt. He tried to be unobtrusive, but James caught him checking, and the smile changed, a little rueful, crooked, understanding.
“You can look.”
“Can I?”
“Nothing to hide.” The blue of those eyes stayed as clear as tropical oceans. No murkily concealing stormclouds in sight.
James stood there and let Michael touch him, carefully, running fingertips over offered forearms, lifted palms. No vicious red lines. No bandages. No new soul-deep wounds.
Old scars, yes. Those might never go away. They caught the light, from overhead, and reflected silver even though the kitchen lights themselves threw gold. Michael traced one of them, gently, not the newest one, following memories up from one wrist.
He had been better about calling. About not letting James ever feel abandoned and alone. And James had been better about listening. Had been working hard to believe the words, when Michael told him I love you or it’s not you, I’m just tired, it’s been a long day, or I won’t ever leave you.
James waited. Not saying anything, only gazing at him, calm.
“I do love you, you know.” He lifted James’s right hand. Brought it to his lips. Kissed it, lightly. James laughed. “I know. And I love you. I’m glad you’re home. Feeling chivalrous?”
“Not really. You taste good.”
James examined his own fingertips, curiously. “I probably taste like whipped cream. Or…not-entirely-whipped cream. Or—”
“I love that you taste like whipped cream. James?”
“Yes?”
“I wouldn’t be opposed to more of you tasting like whipped cream…”
James blinked, grinned, lifted expressive eyebrows. “I can always make more. Later.”
“Much later.”
And James started laughing, and Michael grabbed the bowl from the counter and got them all down the hall into the bedroom, where he could demonstrate his appreciation for James, and for James’s culinary talents, in unquestionable ways.
Afterwards, James fell asleep, curled up contentedly into Michael’s heat, a stray fleck of cream still decorating the corner of his mouth. Michael breathed out, and in again, and held him. Thought about scars, and healing, and change. About making things better, day by day.
James yawned. Opened sleepy eyes, bluer than the indigo sky, beyond the window. “Hi.”
“Hi, yourself. Tired?”
“You wore me out. All that enthusiasm.”
“You enjoy my enthusiasm.”
“Oh, I wasn’t complaining. But I am kind of hungry, now.”
“I thought I just—”
“Finish that sentence and you’ll regret it.”
“No,” Michael said, very quietly, “no regrets, James, not ever,” and he knew, from the sea-change in those eyes, that James knew what he was answering, then.
The moment stretched out, between them. Sweeter than the lingering scent of chocolate, or the stars, outside.
Michael put out a fingertip. Collected the bit of whipped cream from James’s lips. Devoured it. Saw James smile. “You didn’t say you were hungry. Chocolate torte?”
“Chocolate torte in bed?”
“And here I thought I was the mindreader.” James sat up, but didn’t move right away, because Michael’d taken his hand, and was playing with it, caressing happy fingers, not wanting to let him go.
“James?”
“Yes?”
“I’m happy. With you. You believe that, right? You should believe that. You make me happy. I love you.”
And James smiled again, the amusement, in blue eyes, melting into deeper warmth. “Yes.”
“…you do?”
“Yes, I do. Because I’m pretty sure I know exactly how you feel.”
“You—”
“You make me happy, too.”