The Transitive Property of Attraction Part 8
In addition to delicious soups, Pete made a hell of a pancake.
"You're cleaning up this mess," Henry snapped as he dug into a scrumptious banana and blueberry pancake. When Pete said he'd make pancakes, Henry had half expected them to be imaginary. He was surprised to learn he even had the ingredients for a pancake. When Henry looked around his kitchen, he only saw the makings of a cheese sandwich or takeout.
"I like to cook," Pete said as he twirled his hair. "I don't like eating so much. I mostly like sweets and stuff, but I like being in the kitchen. I can do the cooking and you'll do the cleaning. Genius."
"What are you talking about? When will you be doing the cooking?"
Pete shrugged. "I dunno. Whenever we move in together. We'd save loads of money sharing a flat."
"Have you been smoking my stuff? Pete, I got that from Dave. Who knows what it's laced with. How many fingers am I holding up?" Henry held three fingers in front of Pete's glazed eyes.
Pete giggled and shoved a hunk of pancake in his mouth. He ate noisily, like a child.
"Pete, I'm serious," Henry tried in a gentle tone. "You aren't making any sense."
"You know," Pete giggled, "after we've been together for a while. I ain't trying to rush things."
"What makes you think we're together?" Henry asked, wondering what he'd said in his pain- and drug-fueled stupor.
"We spent last night snugglin' in your bed," Pete laughed. "That's got to count as a first date! That was genius, by the way. The one downside to dating Poppy is cuddling just wasn't the same. No body heat, you know?"
"I can imagine."
Pete grinned. "You can imagine? I can imagine!"
Henry had to laugh, and then he had to wrap his arms around his injured rib.
Pete's face softened.
"I'm really sorry, Stitch. I thought I could never hurt you, and then I went and did worse damage than Charles ever did."
Henry wanted to argue with every aspect of the statement, but there was a strange lump in his throat. Henry wondered if it was cancer.
"I don't even know why I was so upset. I know Poppy weren't real, and in a way, Daisy weren't real either. I was just so mad." Pete hung his head sadly.
"I'm sorry, Pete. I really am. I should have talked to you, but..." Henry couldn't even imagine what he would have said to Pete. That was the problem. Henry had only a vague idea of what he wanted from his own life, and stumbled through his days in an apathetic haze. What advice could he possibly offer to Pete?
"I know it's hard for you to talk about things," Pete said, looking oddly grave. "You're not all that comfortable having feelings, you certainly don't want to go around talking about them. I mean, what are you? French?"
Either Pete had been possessed by the spirit of Henry's grandfather, or Henry had been discussing his family when he was hammered. Henry had always planned to leave his old life in Leeds, but it had never quite worked out. His roots were always showing.
"I was a dick. I'm sorry. As soon as I'm able to dance again, we'll hit the clubs and find you a nice, real, not certifiably crazy girl," Henry offered with his nicest smile.
Pete gave him a quizzical look. "Why would I need a girl? I got you now."
There were so many things wrong with Pete's statement, Henry wasn't sure how to respond.
So he shut up and finished his pancakes.
xxz
Hours went by, and Pete didn't leave. He made lunch, and then he took a shower. The drain looked like it was wearing a wig when he was done. He wasn't doing anything especially romantic or sexual; he just kept bopping around Henry's apartment like he belonged there.
Henry had never been a heavy smoker, but he'd planned to lay off the fags while his rib healed. Naturally, biology being a cold-hearted and irony-loving bitch, Henry suddenly developed a cough as his lungs eagerly tried to clear themselves of tar. The only way to ease the coughing was to smoke. Each time he climbed out onto the fire escape to have a smoke, Pete followed him, taking the occasional drag off of Henry's cigarette.
"Since when do you smoke?" Henry asked, remembering how Pete had coughed until tears rolled down his cheeks any time he'd tried to smoke in the past.
"I practiced," Pete explained, looking at his feet. "With Poppy."
"Why would you practice smoking?" Henry asked, unable to restrain his laughter. Pete was so delightfully odd. "You don't want to take up smoking."
Pete shrugged. "You hardly ever smoke, 'cept when you're with Charles. You always smell like an ashtray after you've been with him."
Henry wanted to hide. Pete seemed to be seeing everything with his luminous eyes. When they'd been together, Henry had made Charles go outside to light up. Henry hated for his flat to smell of smoke, but recently, he and Charles had been smoking in bed. The headache-inducing scent that lingered was just another reminder that Henry had lost complete control of his life.
"And the stench made you think you should take up smoking?" Henry asked in a teasing tone.
Pete thought about it for a moment and nodded. "S'pose so."
Pete had a naive way about him that made everything he did a little sexy, so Henry wasn't surprised that Pete made smoking downright pornographic. He closed his eyes when he inhaled, chewed on his lip and stroked the fag between draws, and then puckered his lips when he exhaled.
"Smoking will stunt your growth," Stitch snapped, snatching the fag from Pete's mouth.
Pete tilted his head and chewed on his lower lip.
"Pretty sure I'm all grown up already, Stitch."
xxx
"Why don't you go out, enjoy your Saturday night?" Henry suggested as it got dark. "You've played nursemaid long enough."
"I am enjoying my Saturday night," Pete countered, snuggling into Henry's side as they sat on the couch. "Let's watch a movie. Something funny that we'll both understand."
Henry stroked his thumb along Pete's sharp cheekbone.
"You're so..."
"So what?" Pete asked in a breathy voice. It nearly made Henry lose what was left of his mind.
"Fucking weird," Henry finished. "You're certifiable. You know that, right?"
Pete laughed and rubbed his cheek against Henry's hand like a cat. "But I got a good heart, right?"
Henry was feeling a bit panicky about his loose lips under the influence. He literally had no idea what he'd said to Pete, and it was terrifying. Henry had a lot of secrets from Pete. There were things Henry had never even considered a secret until he'd realized Pete had been hearing his drunken confessions.
"I'm so very fond of you," Henry began, feeling awkward and stiff. "You're a good friend and you are very attractive..."
Pete blushed and fussed with his hair, seeming to miss the whole "I'm letting you down gently" aspect of what Henry was saying. He'd have to be more direct.
"But you like girls, and I like men," Henry said, before clarifying, "Men who like men."
"I like you," Pete giggled. "You and one of my English teachers, Mr. Todd, and Bowie and Jagger, 'course, and... Oh, Stephen Fry. I know that's a little weird, but he's so smart and always sounds so posh. I think it would be like having sex with Father Christmas."
Henry briefly wondered if Pete imagined Father Christmas as being smart and posh, but decided not to go headfirst into the rabbit hole.
"Being attracted to a handful of celebrities isn't the same as being bisexual," Henry pointed out. "You're confusing a harmless crush with..."
"Harmful love?"
Henry wrapped his arm around Pete. "You're very sweet. You've had a rough time of it..."
"So've you," Pete added.
"I didn't lose someone the way you did, and I think..."
"But you lost people, too."
The sane thing to do would be to simply ask Pete what he meant, but it was easier to worry about which losses he'd been boo-hooing about than to actually know what he'd said.
"Maybe you're thinking that it would be easy being with me, compared to a woman..."
Pete laughed. "No way, Stitch! You're the most complicated person I know. You're like a Merchant-Ivory film."
Henry nearly swooned; he had always wanted to be complicated. He'd always preferred his partners to be older, but it was suddenly clear that he should only date the terribly young: barely legal kids who were too inexperienced to know the difference between complicated and fucked up beyond repair.
"But I'm not a film, am I? I'm just a person. No plot, no lessons to be learned. No Anthony Hopkins to delight and amaze, with his subtle acting and piercing blue eyes."
Pete giggled. "Your eyes don't pierce. They're way too shifty to pierce anything!"
"That's just one of my many physical flaws. My body is a pale and flabby husk surrounding a pile of insecurity and bullshit," Henry explained, trying not to laugh at Pete's sincere enthusiasm. Pete refused to stop being cheerful long enough for Henry to end what Pete seemed to think was a budding romance.
Pete laughed and leaned on Henry's shoulder, putting his hand on Henry's chest. "You're mental, Stitch. I like your shifty eyes. I like everything about you."
"I'm an asshole."
"Not really," countered Pete. "You're just sad sometimes. I'm the same way."
Henry couldn't argue when Pete's hand was slowly moving down from Henry's chest to his belly. Pete was the opposite of Henry's usual type, but he was undeniably attractive. If he weren't also Henry's closest friend, he would have simply gone for it. Pete was beautiful and momentarily available, and there was no good reason for Henry to not take advantage of his good luck.
Except for the fact that he knew the extent to which Pete was damaged and vulnerable.
Henry took Pete's hand before it could move below his waist and kissed it before returning it to his chest. Pete looked quizzical, but he just shrugged and snuggled into Henry's side.
"I'm not trying to push you," Pete explained, sounding like his usual sunny self. "Whenever you're up to it."
Pete covered his mouth and giggled at his accidental pun. Henry was more than 'up to it,' but he wasn't about to ruin a friendship with sex. Especially not sober sex.
"You're cleaning up this mess," Henry snapped as he dug into a scrumptious banana and blueberry pancake. When Pete said he'd make pancakes, Henry had half expected them to be imaginary. He was surprised to learn he even had the ingredients for a pancake. When Henry looked around his kitchen, he only saw the makings of a cheese sandwich or takeout.
"I like to cook," Pete said as he twirled his hair. "I don't like eating so much. I mostly like sweets and stuff, but I like being in the kitchen. I can do the cooking and you'll do the cleaning. Genius."
"What are you talking about? When will you be doing the cooking?"
Pete shrugged. "I dunno. Whenever we move in together. We'd save loads of money sharing a flat."
"Have you been smoking my stuff? Pete, I got that from Dave. Who knows what it's laced with. How many fingers am I holding up?" Henry held three fingers in front of Pete's glazed eyes.
Pete giggled and shoved a hunk of pancake in his mouth. He ate noisily, like a child.
"Pete, I'm serious," Henry tried in a gentle tone. "You aren't making any sense."
"You know," Pete giggled, "after we've been together for a while. I ain't trying to rush things."
"What makes you think we're together?" Henry asked, wondering what he'd said in his pain- and drug-fueled stupor.
"We spent last night snugglin' in your bed," Pete laughed. "That's got to count as a first date! That was genius, by the way. The one downside to dating Poppy is cuddling just wasn't the same. No body heat, you know?"
"I can imagine."
Pete grinned. "You can imagine? I can imagine!"
Henry had to laugh, and then he had to wrap his arms around his injured rib.
Pete's face softened.
"I'm really sorry, Stitch. I thought I could never hurt you, and then I went and did worse damage than Charles ever did."
Henry wanted to argue with every aspect of the statement, but there was a strange lump in his throat. Henry wondered if it was cancer.
"I don't even know why I was so upset. I know Poppy weren't real, and in a way, Daisy weren't real either. I was just so mad." Pete hung his head sadly.
"I'm sorry, Pete. I really am. I should have talked to you, but..." Henry couldn't even imagine what he would have said to Pete. That was the problem. Henry had only a vague idea of what he wanted from his own life, and stumbled through his days in an apathetic haze. What advice could he possibly offer to Pete?
"I know it's hard for you to talk about things," Pete said, looking oddly grave. "You're not all that comfortable having feelings, you certainly don't want to go around talking about them. I mean, what are you? French?"
Either Pete had been possessed by the spirit of Henry's grandfather, or Henry had been discussing his family when he was hammered. Henry had always planned to leave his old life in Leeds, but it had never quite worked out. His roots were always showing.
"I was a dick. I'm sorry. As soon as I'm able to dance again, we'll hit the clubs and find you a nice, real, not certifiably crazy girl," Henry offered with his nicest smile.
Pete gave him a quizzical look. "Why would I need a girl? I got you now."
There were so many things wrong with Pete's statement, Henry wasn't sure how to respond.
So he shut up and finished his pancakes.
xxz
Hours went by, and Pete didn't leave. He made lunch, and then he took a shower. The drain looked like it was wearing a wig when he was done. He wasn't doing anything especially romantic or sexual; he just kept bopping around Henry's apartment like he belonged there.
Henry had never been a heavy smoker, but he'd planned to lay off the fags while his rib healed. Naturally, biology being a cold-hearted and irony-loving bitch, Henry suddenly developed a cough as his lungs eagerly tried to clear themselves of tar. The only way to ease the coughing was to smoke. Each time he climbed out onto the fire escape to have a smoke, Pete followed him, taking the occasional drag off of Henry's cigarette.
"Since when do you smoke?" Henry asked, remembering how Pete had coughed until tears rolled down his cheeks any time he'd tried to smoke in the past.
"I practiced," Pete explained, looking at his feet. "With Poppy."
"Why would you practice smoking?" Henry asked, unable to restrain his laughter. Pete was so delightfully odd. "You don't want to take up smoking."
Pete shrugged. "You hardly ever smoke, 'cept when you're with Charles. You always smell like an ashtray after you've been with him."
Henry wanted to hide. Pete seemed to be seeing everything with his luminous eyes. When they'd been together, Henry had made Charles go outside to light up. Henry hated for his flat to smell of smoke, but recently, he and Charles had been smoking in bed. The headache-inducing scent that lingered was just another reminder that Henry had lost complete control of his life.
"And the stench made you think you should take up smoking?" Henry asked in a teasing tone.
Pete thought about it for a moment and nodded. "S'pose so."
Pete had a naive way about him that made everything he did a little sexy, so Henry wasn't surprised that Pete made smoking downright pornographic. He closed his eyes when he inhaled, chewed on his lip and stroked the fag between draws, and then puckered his lips when he exhaled.
"Smoking will stunt your growth," Stitch snapped, snatching the fag from Pete's mouth.
Pete tilted his head and chewed on his lower lip.
"Pretty sure I'm all grown up already, Stitch."
xxx
"Why don't you go out, enjoy your Saturday night?" Henry suggested as it got dark. "You've played nursemaid long enough."
"I am enjoying my Saturday night," Pete countered, snuggling into Henry's side as they sat on the couch. "Let's watch a movie. Something funny that we'll both understand."
Henry stroked his thumb along Pete's sharp cheekbone.
"You're so..."
"So what?" Pete asked in a breathy voice. It nearly made Henry lose what was left of his mind.
"Fucking weird," Henry finished. "You're certifiable. You know that, right?"
Pete laughed and rubbed his cheek against Henry's hand like a cat. "But I got a good heart, right?"
Henry was feeling a bit panicky about his loose lips under the influence. He literally had no idea what he'd said to Pete, and it was terrifying. Henry had a lot of secrets from Pete. There were things Henry had never even considered a secret until he'd realized Pete had been hearing his drunken confessions.
"I'm so very fond of you," Henry began, feeling awkward and stiff. "You're a good friend and you are very attractive..."
Pete blushed and fussed with his hair, seeming to miss the whole "I'm letting you down gently" aspect of what Henry was saying. He'd have to be more direct.
"But you like girls, and I like men," Henry said, before clarifying, "Men who like men."
"I like you," Pete giggled. "You and one of my English teachers, Mr. Todd, and Bowie and Jagger, 'course, and... Oh, Stephen Fry. I know that's a little weird, but he's so smart and always sounds so posh. I think it would be like having sex with Father Christmas."
Henry briefly wondered if Pete imagined Father Christmas as being smart and posh, but decided not to go headfirst into the rabbit hole.
"Being attracted to a handful of celebrities isn't the same as being bisexual," Henry pointed out. "You're confusing a harmless crush with..."
"Harmful love?"
Henry wrapped his arm around Pete. "You're very sweet. You've had a rough time of it..."
"So've you," Pete added.
"I didn't lose someone the way you did, and I think..."
"But you lost people, too."
The sane thing to do would be to simply ask Pete what he meant, but it was easier to worry about which losses he'd been boo-hooing about than to actually know what he'd said.
"Maybe you're thinking that it would be easy being with me, compared to a woman..."
Pete laughed. "No way, Stitch! You're the most complicated person I know. You're like a Merchant-Ivory film."
Henry nearly swooned; he had always wanted to be complicated. He'd always preferred his partners to be older, but it was suddenly clear that he should only date the terribly young: barely legal kids who were too inexperienced to know the difference between complicated and fucked up beyond repair.
"But I'm not a film, am I? I'm just a person. No plot, no lessons to be learned. No Anthony Hopkins to delight and amaze, with his subtle acting and piercing blue eyes."
Pete giggled. "Your eyes don't pierce. They're way too shifty to pierce anything!"
"That's just one of my many physical flaws. My body is a pale and flabby husk surrounding a pile of insecurity and bullshit," Henry explained, trying not to laugh at Pete's sincere enthusiasm. Pete refused to stop being cheerful long enough for Henry to end what Pete seemed to think was a budding romance.
Pete laughed and leaned on Henry's shoulder, putting his hand on Henry's chest. "You're mental, Stitch. I like your shifty eyes. I like everything about you."
"I'm an asshole."
"Not really," countered Pete. "You're just sad sometimes. I'm the same way."
Henry couldn't argue when Pete's hand was slowly moving down from Henry's chest to his belly. Pete was the opposite of Henry's usual type, but he was undeniably attractive. If he weren't also Henry's closest friend, he would have simply gone for it. Pete was beautiful and momentarily available, and there was no good reason for Henry to not take advantage of his good luck.
Except for the fact that he knew the extent to which Pete was damaged and vulnerable.
Henry took Pete's hand before it could move below his waist and kissed it before returning it to his chest. Pete looked quizzical, but he just shrugged and snuggled into Henry's side.
"I'm not trying to push you," Pete explained, sounding like his usual sunny self. "Whenever you're up to it."
Pete covered his mouth and giggled at his accidental pun. Henry was more than 'up to it,' but he wasn't about to ruin a friendship with sex. Especially not sober sex.