Touch (Kevin/Nick)
Two months.
That’s how long it’s been since our first hesitant moment of intimacy, standing in our parents’ kitchen holding each other. The more I think about it, the more wholly, spontaneously, wonderfully careless and unplanned it seems. And, of course, I’m left simply thinking about it, because Kevin still hasn’t said anything in reference to it, like maybe he’s a little embarrassed. I wouldn’t hold that against him. The moment could have been potentially the most awkward of our lives. But, it wasn’t. It was perfect, except that it didn’t last long enough.
To be honest, we still haven’t really stopped to discuss whatever it is that’s happened between us. I spent that glorious Thursday night in his bed, curled up half-naked against his equally-bare body. I didn’t sleep much. It was hard to, since half of the night was spent with him pressing his lips along my neck and shoulders, dipping his tongue into the curves of my collarbones, like he was memorizing my taste.
The other half, I spent watching Kevin’s serene, sleeping face where his head rested on the pillow so close to mine. I was contemplating the kiss he eased carefully onto my mouth before he fell asleep, our third kiss, the one he punctuated with a whispered “I love you.”
I was so stunned, I didn’t answer. He didn’t seem to mind that. By the satisfied smile on his face, it seemed he just wanted it in the air. Or, maybe he just knew already. Maybe I didn’t need to tell him. But it wasn’t until almost dawn that I managed to temper my desire to wake him up so I could say it back, that I realized I was being held close by the one person I cherish more than anyone, and that I should make the most of it.
I slept easily after that.
But, now, it’s been two months. We’ve been on tour, so I haven’t had to make excuses to spend the night at Kevin’s. (“We’re trying to finish this song” only works so many times.) It’s easier with him right across a hotel hallway, and all I have to do is crawl into his bed, and set my alarm a couple hours earlier so I have time to kiss him awake and let him tempt me into remaining in his bed instead of removing myself to the cool loneliness of my own.
It’s easier now that Joe knows. He caught us one morning, trapped in the midst of our twenty-second kiss. Kevin had me pressed gently into the doorframe of our bathroom, toothbrush still unused in my hand, since he said he wanted to taste me before I covered the flavor with toothpaste. Joe walked right by, paused, frowned at us, and suggested we close the door lest a parental unit or little brother see.
He’s kept his mouth carefully closed about the incident since then, not giving our little something a name any more than we have. He’s helpful though, to a point, not questioning the fact that I shower, don pajamas, and creep away for the night. And the one time we both slept through my alarm, and Mom opened the door to our room to find us fast asleep in the same bed (luckily separated at that moment, with our backs to each other), Joe was there to supply the story of the argument we had that had driven me, furious, into our brother’s room, where there was conveniently only one bed.
So, on the road, with its heightened level of privacy, we move around and to each other far more effortlessly. He’s still the same sweet, perfectly romantic Kevin he always was. I’m still the hopelessly-in-love, somewhat word-clumsy teenage boy, which I never thought I would describe myself as.
He hasn’t told me he loves me since that first time. I don’t know for sure, but I can’t help but feel that it’s because I didn’t say it back. I missed my shot then, and when I work up the nerve to say it, to tell him how I feel, which has always been my forte with everyone else in my life, I choke. I’m beginning to realize why those three little words are so significant. They’re hardest to say when you mean them.
I envy how easily he let them slip through his lips. I only questioned his sincerity once, when we were in lockdown, and he was laughing at one of the lewd jokes fans will never hear Joe tell. Then, he turned those amber eyes on me, and there was such an open honesty in them that I knew they couldn’t hide anything, that he’d never lie to me, and I proceeded to kick myself in the mouth all the harder for it, trying to push myself into saying it, because God knows I feel it.
So, here we are, two months into our little whatever, and I’m standing in front of the mirror in Kevin’s room, back to wondering how words have gone from being my trademark gift to failing me completely. It’s three words, expressing something I’ve felt for years, but have never said in the context I’m trying to right now. Part of me thinks that telling him I love him won’t mean anything compared to the depth of my adoration for him.
That’s the part that’s pushing me right now. He’s in the shower, savoring this one night without a show, taking his time, and I’m contemplating doing something I’ve been afraid of doing my whole life. I watch my reflection closely, looking for any sign of whether I should or shouldn’t go through with this, and then I’m imagining him standing beside me, smiling at our reflections. The thought slips into my mind: That’s where I want him forever. Right beside me. And then I know I can do it; I’m going to do it.
I’m in bed, tucked into the warm blankets, staring blankly at the TV (which is coincidentally broadcasting Hannah Montana, which I should start taking as some sort of sign), nerves twisting my stomach, when he emerges from the bathroom, his flannel pants riding low, exposing the sharp, attractive curves of his hips. He smiles at me, that way he always does, like there is nothing more important to him than spending this moment here with me.
My heart kicks up its tempo with each step he takes toward his side of the bed (always the right). And then the moment comes, the same casual way it always does, his warm body sliding in between the sheets beside mine. His eyes turn toward the TV but I click the power button on the remote, and the questioning look he gives me prompts me to say, “I want you to pay attention to me tonight.”
The way his hand settles warmly below my belly button says more than words could, and he leans in to kiss me, his fingers sliding over to rest in their exclusive place on my thigh. He freezes, his mouth hovering close, warm breath puffing against my skin through parted lips. His eyes bore into mine, and I watch the serene green dissolve into dark amber. I’m naked, and he’s just realized it.
The only time we’ve ever come close to this was the one time his hand strayed a little farther than normal under the hem of my pants. It scared me, because I didn’t know what to do, how to react, because I’m inexperienced and can at least admit it about myself. He stopped, apologizing, as soon as he noticed the way all my muscles tightened in anticipation and fear, and that’s the reason I’m not scared now. He’ll stop if he thinks I need him to.
So I will myself not to blush, because it would ruin everything if I did that now, and take heart from the fact that he hasn’t removed his hand. It’s still pressed against my skin, skin that no one else has seen or touched this intimately, a presence that brings me confidence. I meet his gaze squarely. No use being shy now.
His breath catches, but no words come, and my self-assurance wavers because he’s hesitating, and that can only mean he doesn’t want to, or he thinks it’s a bad idea, and I can’t stand the thought of him not doing this, because it’s the only way I can prove to him that I love him with all of me. Finally, he shifts, removes his hand, crushes my hopes, before his voice softly makes itself known. “Can I look at you?”
The relief that washes through me practically melts my bones, and I nod, watching his face as he pushes the covers past my toes, because if I don’t look directly at him, and remember who it is that I’m with, I’ll realize that I’m not only completely naked, but someone is looking at me. Somehow, since it’s him, I don’t really feel exposed, except for the vague sense that the room is cooler than I thought.
His expression remains neutral, almost solemn, as he takes in every inch of me, avoiding meeting my gaze. His fingers are hesitant, more careful with this new, intimate territory, tracing the outlines of my hips through my skin. And, then even more carefully, he lowers his mouth, pressing a sweet kiss to one of the bones, lingering as if waiting for me to tell him this is alright. I shift, my fingers sliding through his hair, telling him that this isn’t just alright. This is what I want more than anything. He looks up at me with those big amber eyes. There must be something in my face that I’m not aware of, because they flash that soft green, just for a moment, and suddenly, I know he knows. I don’t have to say it, because he’s read it in my skin, the same way he did back when this started.
Cautiously, the same way he’s done everything else, the same way he’s spent every moment with me, because I matter to him, and he doesn’t want to hurt me, he settles between my slightly-spread legs, allowing himself more space, and somehow, I relax, knowing he won’t stop, even as my stomach twists with anxiety. He won’t continue, if I tell him not to, if he even feels for an instant that I don’t want him to. I’m more afraid of the fact that I won’t want him to.
Before I can think too hard about this, he touches me. I gasp softly, because I don’t want him to hear it; I don’t want him to think he’s scaring me. Even so, his fingertips, rough with years of playing guitar, are light, fleeting, just stroking over my skin, because he is just as aware as I am that he’s the first to touch me like this. He is the first and only to even see this much of me.
His eyes lift to my face, because he seems just as nervous. He’s waiting for me, expecting me, to stop him. But, he’s just touching; that’s all he wants, and that’s all I want from him. So, my fingers scratch affectionately at his scalp, that way I know he likes, the way I do when his head is resting on my stomach, and he’s dozing, and I smile the best I can, because I’m nervous, and because even this is a big step between us, a big change to what we have been, and what we’re becoming.
He doesn’t try to return that smile, just leans forward, bracing himself on his hand against the bed, and presses a kiss to my stomach. His lips are gentle, a careful pressure on my skin. And, then he’s sliding down, and his mouth is on my length, and he’s breathing through his nose, and my hands tighten slightly on his hair, and I let my eyes close, because right now is about feeling. There is once again an absolute lack of arousal, and that’s how this was meant to be. I want this to be all love, and I know he feels it too. He presses sweet, somehow chaste kisses along that previously-untouched skin, and his hand slides down lower, just exploring, and I shudder.
He looks up, questioningly, nervously, and I don’t know which is stronger - the fear that he’s going too far, or the fear that I want him to stop. I just shake my head, having barely let my eyes open, and now I fall back against the pillow as he resumes his acts of memorization, since I know now that that’s what he’s doing.
After that first time together, sitting on his couch, he knows the different dips and curves of my chest and stomach and back better than I do, having learned them with his hands and mouth, and now he’s doing the same for the rest of my body. I’m okay with that. I’m more than okay with that; I want him to know me better than anyone.
And, suddenly, I’m jolted out of the sleepy contentment I’m beginning to feel beneath his hesitant touches, when I feel the his tongue swirling experimentally around the tip, and I arch up, gasping, because suddenly, this isn’t so innocent, and suddenly it’s a little scarier, and he knows it, and before I can pull myself from my daze to think clearly, he’s back up by my side, pulling the blankets around me and around him, holding me close.
He turns on the TV, and I bury my face into his neck. Neither of us says anything for a long time. I don’t know what to say that won’t be awkward. I don’t know why he’s not speaking. We just let the room fill with the sound of the Disney Channel, because I just can’t seem to go too long without hearing her voice, and then I feel his lips pressing against my temple.
“Thank you.” His voice is soft, overwhelmed. I can’t imagine what he’s thanking me for. I’d almost assume he’s being sarcastic, except that Kevin is never sarcastic, not with me, not in these moments. All I did was get scared; all I did was exactly what I promised myself I wouldn’t when we did this. He hesitates a moment longer, tucking a curl behind my ear and smoothing his hand over my shoulder and down my side. It settles lightly at my waist, his thumb rubbing in circles against my hip.
And, then he rolls away from me, laying flat out on his back, and my arm is left resting on the bed, my hand on his shoulder, because he’s not there, and there’s space between us that should never be there, and my heart breaks a little with each second that he’s not holding me. Then, I notice the way he’s wiggling, like his back itches, and I almost offer to scratch it, just because it would mean being able to touch him, but now he’s rolling back toward me.
His hand settles on my stomach in that same way it did before, like nothing’s different now, and nothing’s happened. His eyes are a honey color; it’s a little new to me. He’s never looked at me quite this way, and now he’s pressing a kiss to my mouth - our seventieth, because kisses are special, and we use them sparingly. It isn’t the same tentative kiss as our first, and it’s certainly nothing like our heated forty-fourth, but it’s different and unique and perfect. My fingers tangle in his hair, and for a moment, I consider thanking him, for not kicking me out of his bed because I’m a coward, for still treating me like he loves me.
My head tilts up, my lips parting slightly, allowing him to deepen the kiss. He shifts, lifts himself up on his hands, settles himself over me, our chests pressing together, and then I realize I can feel all of him. He’s as bare as I am, and I moan softly at the thought. My heart is swelling so gratefully, because even though I know it’s not embarrassing for him, because he’s not as unsure of himself, I know he’s trying to make me more comfortable.
I wrap my arms tightly around his neck, breaking the kiss so that I can bury my face in his neck, and this is so sensual and intimate, but I don’t feel threatened. I’m not scared, and that’s how I know that he loves me right now, despite the fact that he hasn’t said it. “Kevin?”
He hums softly in response, his hand slipping over my side, even as he presses sweet, distracting kisses along my collarbone. He doesn’t look up. I don’t need him to, not to know that he’s focused fully on me. His body is humming with it, with an adoration I didn’t know anyone could feel for me.
I swallow carefully, because lumps don’t usually form in my throat quite like this. It’s not any easier to say it now, but I’m determined. I press a kiss to his damp curls, my eyes closing at that clean, soapy smell. Somehow, I manage to lift his head, bringing his face up to mine. Our mouths are surprisingly close, so that our lips brush together, but that’s okay; I want him to feel this. My voice is quiet, barely a whisper, because even though we’ve spoken this in so many ways that mean more than words, this is important. “I love you.”
He stares at me for a long time. It’s unnerving. I wonder if I said it wrong, if it came out in Pig Latin or something, and then he blinks. Once. Twice. He just blinks at me, like he’s wondering if I really said it, if it’s really me lying here beneath him, both of us naked and cozy under a blanket in a beautiful, spacious hotel suite, having just finished kissing and enjoying each other’s presence, and now I’m the one quietly telling him that I love him. It’s funny; I feel like he’s looking at me the same way I looked at him, that first and only time he ever said it to me, like maybe he doesn’t believe it, the same way I didn’t.
And, finally, he smiles. His eyes crinkle the way they do when he’s relieved and joyous, and now he’s pushing forward for another kiss - number seventy-one - and I don’t know if our lips ever separate, because I feel like I’m suffocating into him, in the best possible way, that we’re just melding together. Sometime, I hear “I love you too.” He says it back, but I know. I know, and despite the way warmth rushes through me, I’m less inclined to need to hear it, because his whole being is speaking to me right now: his hands on my hips and thighs, his tongue exploring my mouth in a way no one else ever has, his body and the way mine curls around it. We’re meant to be just this way, and if he never says it again, I’ll hear it in everything he says and doesn’t say.
The next day, he can’t stop touching me.
Of course, his hands aren’t all over me. When joking around with Joe, teasing me, he makes a move that could be seen as ruffling my hair, the most brotherly of brotherly actions. Really, he’s sliding his fingers through my curls, so discreetly that no one would notice. I have a feeling that Joe does notice, that he always notices, but he doesn’t say anything.
And, when we’re in lockdown, he sits beside me as I bend over my guitar, and his hand settles on the back of my neck, his fingers kneading into my skin, and I think for just one illogical second, that we’ve been together, been like this our whole lives, because that’s what that motion says to me: comfort, recognition, devotion. We’re meant to be.
It makes me laugh to think about it. It seems natural, that last night, he fell asleep with his cheek against my shoulder, still fully on top of me, his fingers tangled with mine on the pillow beside my head. For a moment, he seemed so young, like he was the one I was taking care of, and suddenly, I realized how open he’s willing to be with me. This was how we’re always supposed to be. I’m going to spend the rest of my life being lulled to sleep by his warmth, by all the things he is, that I want and need from him, and that he’s willing to give me.
There are moments we stand side-by-side, and his knuckles brush over mine. He swings his hand almost deliberately back and forth, like he’s trying to show his impatience, but I know his reasons. Eventually, he stills, when Joe tells him he’s making him dizzy, twisting like he’s dancing, and I let my pinky hook around his. Whether he knows it or not, I’m making a promise. He looks over at me and smiles. Yeah, he knows.
That’s how long it’s been since our first hesitant moment of intimacy, standing in our parents’ kitchen holding each other. The more I think about it, the more wholly, spontaneously, wonderfully careless and unplanned it seems. And, of course, I’m left simply thinking about it, because Kevin still hasn’t said anything in reference to it, like maybe he’s a little embarrassed. I wouldn’t hold that against him. The moment could have been potentially the most awkward of our lives. But, it wasn’t. It was perfect, except that it didn’t last long enough.
To be honest, we still haven’t really stopped to discuss whatever it is that’s happened between us. I spent that glorious Thursday night in his bed, curled up half-naked against his equally-bare body. I didn’t sleep much. It was hard to, since half of the night was spent with him pressing his lips along my neck and shoulders, dipping his tongue into the curves of my collarbones, like he was memorizing my taste.
The other half, I spent watching Kevin’s serene, sleeping face where his head rested on the pillow so close to mine. I was contemplating the kiss he eased carefully onto my mouth before he fell asleep, our third kiss, the one he punctuated with a whispered “I love you.”
I was so stunned, I didn’t answer. He didn’t seem to mind that. By the satisfied smile on his face, it seemed he just wanted it in the air. Or, maybe he just knew already. Maybe I didn’t need to tell him. But it wasn’t until almost dawn that I managed to temper my desire to wake him up so I could say it back, that I realized I was being held close by the one person I cherish more than anyone, and that I should make the most of it.
I slept easily after that.
But, now, it’s been two months. We’ve been on tour, so I haven’t had to make excuses to spend the night at Kevin’s. (“We’re trying to finish this song” only works so many times.) It’s easier with him right across a hotel hallway, and all I have to do is crawl into his bed, and set my alarm a couple hours earlier so I have time to kiss him awake and let him tempt me into remaining in his bed instead of removing myself to the cool loneliness of my own.
It’s easier now that Joe knows. He caught us one morning, trapped in the midst of our twenty-second kiss. Kevin had me pressed gently into the doorframe of our bathroom, toothbrush still unused in my hand, since he said he wanted to taste me before I covered the flavor with toothpaste. Joe walked right by, paused, frowned at us, and suggested we close the door lest a parental unit or little brother see.
He’s kept his mouth carefully closed about the incident since then, not giving our little something a name any more than we have. He’s helpful though, to a point, not questioning the fact that I shower, don pajamas, and creep away for the night. And the one time we both slept through my alarm, and Mom opened the door to our room to find us fast asleep in the same bed (luckily separated at that moment, with our backs to each other), Joe was there to supply the story of the argument we had that had driven me, furious, into our brother’s room, where there was conveniently only one bed.
So, on the road, with its heightened level of privacy, we move around and to each other far more effortlessly. He’s still the same sweet, perfectly romantic Kevin he always was. I’m still the hopelessly-in-love, somewhat word-clumsy teenage boy, which I never thought I would describe myself as.
He hasn’t told me he loves me since that first time. I don’t know for sure, but I can’t help but feel that it’s because I didn’t say it back. I missed my shot then, and when I work up the nerve to say it, to tell him how I feel, which has always been my forte with everyone else in my life, I choke. I’m beginning to realize why those three little words are so significant. They’re hardest to say when you mean them.
I envy how easily he let them slip through his lips. I only questioned his sincerity once, when we were in lockdown, and he was laughing at one of the lewd jokes fans will never hear Joe tell. Then, he turned those amber eyes on me, and there was such an open honesty in them that I knew they couldn’t hide anything, that he’d never lie to me, and I proceeded to kick myself in the mouth all the harder for it, trying to push myself into saying it, because God knows I feel it.
So, here we are, two months into our little whatever, and I’m standing in front of the mirror in Kevin’s room, back to wondering how words have gone from being my trademark gift to failing me completely. It’s three words, expressing something I’ve felt for years, but have never said in the context I’m trying to right now. Part of me thinks that telling him I love him won’t mean anything compared to the depth of my adoration for him.
That’s the part that’s pushing me right now. He’s in the shower, savoring this one night without a show, taking his time, and I’m contemplating doing something I’ve been afraid of doing my whole life. I watch my reflection closely, looking for any sign of whether I should or shouldn’t go through with this, and then I’m imagining him standing beside me, smiling at our reflections. The thought slips into my mind: That’s where I want him forever. Right beside me. And then I know I can do it; I’m going to do it.
I’m in bed, tucked into the warm blankets, staring blankly at the TV (which is coincidentally broadcasting Hannah Montana, which I should start taking as some sort of sign), nerves twisting my stomach, when he emerges from the bathroom, his flannel pants riding low, exposing the sharp, attractive curves of his hips. He smiles at me, that way he always does, like there is nothing more important to him than spending this moment here with me.
My heart kicks up its tempo with each step he takes toward his side of the bed (always the right). And then the moment comes, the same casual way it always does, his warm body sliding in between the sheets beside mine. His eyes turn toward the TV but I click the power button on the remote, and the questioning look he gives me prompts me to say, “I want you to pay attention to me tonight.”
The way his hand settles warmly below my belly button says more than words could, and he leans in to kiss me, his fingers sliding over to rest in their exclusive place on my thigh. He freezes, his mouth hovering close, warm breath puffing against my skin through parted lips. His eyes bore into mine, and I watch the serene green dissolve into dark amber. I’m naked, and he’s just realized it.
The only time we’ve ever come close to this was the one time his hand strayed a little farther than normal under the hem of my pants. It scared me, because I didn’t know what to do, how to react, because I’m inexperienced and can at least admit it about myself. He stopped, apologizing, as soon as he noticed the way all my muscles tightened in anticipation and fear, and that’s the reason I’m not scared now. He’ll stop if he thinks I need him to.
So I will myself not to blush, because it would ruin everything if I did that now, and take heart from the fact that he hasn’t removed his hand. It’s still pressed against my skin, skin that no one else has seen or touched this intimately, a presence that brings me confidence. I meet his gaze squarely. No use being shy now.
His breath catches, but no words come, and my self-assurance wavers because he’s hesitating, and that can only mean he doesn’t want to, or he thinks it’s a bad idea, and I can’t stand the thought of him not doing this, because it’s the only way I can prove to him that I love him with all of me. Finally, he shifts, removes his hand, crushes my hopes, before his voice softly makes itself known. “Can I look at you?”
The relief that washes through me practically melts my bones, and I nod, watching his face as he pushes the covers past my toes, because if I don’t look directly at him, and remember who it is that I’m with, I’ll realize that I’m not only completely naked, but someone is looking at me. Somehow, since it’s him, I don’t really feel exposed, except for the vague sense that the room is cooler than I thought.
His expression remains neutral, almost solemn, as he takes in every inch of me, avoiding meeting my gaze. His fingers are hesitant, more careful with this new, intimate territory, tracing the outlines of my hips through my skin. And, then even more carefully, he lowers his mouth, pressing a sweet kiss to one of the bones, lingering as if waiting for me to tell him this is alright. I shift, my fingers sliding through his hair, telling him that this isn’t just alright. This is what I want more than anything. He looks up at me with those big amber eyes. There must be something in my face that I’m not aware of, because they flash that soft green, just for a moment, and suddenly, I know he knows. I don’t have to say it, because he’s read it in my skin, the same way he did back when this started.
Cautiously, the same way he’s done everything else, the same way he’s spent every moment with me, because I matter to him, and he doesn’t want to hurt me, he settles between my slightly-spread legs, allowing himself more space, and somehow, I relax, knowing he won’t stop, even as my stomach twists with anxiety. He won’t continue, if I tell him not to, if he even feels for an instant that I don’t want him to. I’m more afraid of the fact that I won’t want him to.
Before I can think too hard about this, he touches me. I gasp softly, because I don’t want him to hear it; I don’t want him to think he’s scaring me. Even so, his fingertips, rough with years of playing guitar, are light, fleeting, just stroking over my skin, because he is just as aware as I am that he’s the first to touch me like this. He is the first and only to even see this much of me.
His eyes lift to my face, because he seems just as nervous. He’s waiting for me, expecting me, to stop him. But, he’s just touching; that’s all he wants, and that’s all I want from him. So, my fingers scratch affectionately at his scalp, that way I know he likes, the way I do when his head is resting on my stomach, and he’s dozing, and I smile the best I can, because I’m nervous, and because even this is a big step between us, a big change to what we have been, and what we’re becoming.
He doesn’t try to return that smile, just leans forward, bracing himself on his hand against the bed, and presses a kiss to my stomach. His lips are gentle, a careful pressure on my skin. And, then he’s sliding down, and his mouth is on my length, and he’s breathing through his nose, and my hands tighten slightly on his hair, and I let my eyes close, because right now is about feeling. There is once again an absolute lack of arousal, and that’s how this was meant to be. I want this to be all love, and I know he feels it too. He presses sweet, somehow chaste kisses along that previously-untouched skin, and his hand slides down lower, just exploring, and I shudder.
He looks up, questioningly, nervously, and I don’t know which is stronger - the fear that he’s going too far, or the fear that I want him to stop. I just shake my head, having barely let my eyes open, and now I fall back against the pillow as he resumes his acts of memorization, since I know now that that’s what he’s doing.
After that first time together, sitting on his couch, he knows the different dips and curves of my chest and stomach and back better than I do, having learned them with his hands and mouth, and now he’s doing the same for the rest of my body. I’m okay with that. I’m more than okay with that; I want him to know me better than anyone.
And, suddenly, I’m jolted out of the sleepy contentment I’m beginning to feel beneath his hesitant touches, when I feel the his tongue swirling experimentally around the tip, and I arch up, gasping, because suddenly, this isn’t so innocent, and suddenly it’s a little scarier, and he knows it, and before I can pull myself from my daze to think clearly, he’s back up by my side, pulling the blankets around me and around him, holding me close.
He turns on the TV, and I bury my face into his neck. Neither of us says anything for a long time. I don’t know what to say that won’t be awkward. I don’t know why he’s not speaking. We just let the room fill with the sound of the Disney Channel, because I just can’t seem to go too long without hearing her voice, and then I feel his lips pressing against my temple.
“Thank you.” His voice is soft, overwhelmed. I can’t imagine what he’s thanking me for. I’d almost assume he’s being sarcastic, except that Kevin is never sarcastic, not with me, not in these moments. All I did was get scared; all I did was exactly what I promised myself I wouldn’t when we did this. He hesitates a moment longer, tucking a curl behind my ear and smoothing his hand over my shoulder and down my side. It settles lightly at my waist, his thumb rubbing in circles against my hip.
And, then he rolls away from me, laying flat out on his back, and my arm is left resting on the bed, my hand on his shoulder, because he’s not there, and there’s space between us that should never be there, and my heart breaks a little with each second that he’s not holding me. Then, I notice the way he’s wiggling, like his back itches, and I almost offer to scratch it, just because it would mean being able to touch him, but now he’s rolling back toward me.
His hand settles on my stomach in that same way it did before, like nothing’s different now, and nothing’s happened. His eyes are a honey color; it’s a little new to me. He’s never looked at me quite this way, and now he’s pressing a kiss to my mouth - our seventieth, because kisses are special, and we use them sparingly. It isn’t the same tentative kiss as our first, and it’s certainly nothing like our heated forty-fourth, but it’s different and unique and perfect. My fingers tangle in his hair, and for a moment, I consider thanking him, for not kicking me out of his bed because I’m a coward, for still treating me like he loves me.
My head tilts up, my lips parting slightly, allowing him to deepen the kiss. He shifts, lifts himself up on his hands, settles himself over me, our chests pressing together, and then I realize I can feel all of him. He’s as bare as I am, and I moan softly at the thought. My heart is swelling so gratefully, because even though I know it’s not embarrassing for him, because he’s not as unsure of himself, I know he’s trying to make me more comfortable.
I wrap my arms tightly around his neck, breaking the kiss so that I can bury my face in his neck, and this is so sensual and intimate, but I don’t feel threatened. I’m not scared, and that’s how I know that he loves me right now, despite the fact that he hasn’t said it. “Kevin?”
He hums softly in response, his hand slipping over my side, even as he presses sweet, distracting kisses along my collarbone. He doesn’t look up. I don’t need him to, not to know that he’s focused fully on me. His body is humming with it, with an adoration I didn’t know anyone could feel for me.
I swallow carefully, because lumps don’t usually form in my throat quite like this. It’s not any easier to say it now, but I’m determined. I press a kiss to his damp curls, my eyes closing at that clean, soapy smell. Somehow, I manage to lift his head, bringing his face up to mine. Our mouths are surprisingly close, so that our lips brush together, but that’s okay; I want him to feel this. My voice is quiet, barely a whisper, because even though we’ve spoken this in so many ways that mean more than words, this is important. “I love you.”
He stares at me for a long time. It’s unnerving. I wonder if I said it wrong, if it came out in Pig Latin or something, and then he blinks. Once. Twice. He just blinks at me, like he’s wondering if I really said it, if it’s really me lying here beneath him, both of us naked and cozy under a blanket in a beautiful, spacious hotel suite, having just finished kissing and enjoying each other’s presence, and now I’m the one quietly telling him that I love him. It’s funny; I feel like he’s looking at me the same way I looked at him, that first and only time he ever said it to me, like maybe he doesn’t believe it, the same way I didn’t.
And, finally, he smiles. His eyes crinkle the way they do when he’s relieved and joyous, and now he’s pushing forward for another kiss - number seventy-one - and I don’t know if our lips ever separate, because I feel like I’m suffocating into him, in the best possible way, that we’re just melding together. Sometime, I hear “I love you too.” He says it back, but I know. I know, and despite the way warmth rushes through me, I’m less inclined to need to hear it, because his whole being is speaking to me right now: his hands on my hips and thighs, his tongue exploring my mouth in a way no one else ever has, his body and the way mine curls around it. We’re meant to be just this way, and if he never says it again, I’ll hear it in everything he says and doesn’t say.
The next day, he can’t stop touching me.
Of course, his hands aren’t all over me. When joking around with Joe, teasing me, he makes a move that could be seen as ruffling my hair, the most brotherly of brotherly actions. Really, he’s sliding his fingers through my curls, so discreetly that no one would notice. I have a feeling that Joe does notice, that he always notices, but he doesn’t say anything.
And, when we’re in lockdown, he sits beside me as I bend over my guitar, and his hand settles on the back of my neck, his fingers kneading into my skin, and I think for just one illogical second, that we’ve been together, been like this our whole lives, because that’s what that motion says to me: comfort, recognition, devotion. We’re meant to be.
It makes me laugh to think about it. It seems natural, that last night, he fell asleep with his cheek against my shoulder, still fully on top of me, his fingers tangled with mine on the pillow beside my head. For a moment, he seemed so young, like he was the one I was taking care of, and suddenly, I realized how open he’s willing to be with me. This was how we’re always supposed to be. I’m going to spend the rest of my life being lulled to sleep by his warmth, by all the things he is, that I want and need from him, and that he’s willing to give me.
There are moments we stand side-by-side, and his knuckles brush over mine. He swings his hand almost deliberately back and forth, like he’s trying to show his impatience, but I know his reasons. Eventually, he stills, when Joe tells him he’s making him dizzy, twisting like he’s dancing, and I let my pinky hook around his. Whether he knows it or not, I’m making a promise. He looks over at me and smiles. Yeah, he knows.