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It’s sunny and warm in the kitchen, and the golden morning light is coming through the window and in through the slats in the blinds, and Whizzer gives himself this moment to watch Marvin, bent over the kitchen counter, trying to simultaneously read the directions on the pancake mix box and crack an egg into a bowl.
He’s wearing those dorky shorts that are too short on him, the red ones with the rainbow on the side, and some old t-shirt that’s so worn and faded Whizzer can’t read what’s printed on the front for the life of him. He can see everything, the moles and freckles and imperfections scattered across Marvin’s skin, the scar on his elbow from when he crashed his bike when he was twelve and gashed it open on the edge of a rock, the stretch marks on his thighs, and it takes his breath away. Marvin is so imperfectly perfect. God, the Whizzer of 1979 would’ve mocked him for the shorts, pointed out the moles, turned up his nose at the scar, and probably would’ve made bitchy comments about the stretch marks. (1979 Whizzer was a dick anyway, now that he looks back, and also pretty slutty. The Whizzer of now is glad he’s long gone.) He stands there in the hallway, watches those little dust particles dance in the light, and watches his boyfriend try to make his kid breakfast.
(Jason is twelve now. He’s discovered girls and music and Nintendo games, and can talk about all three for hours on end. Of course, he’s still obsessed with chess, but he joined the chess club at school, and has two friends he met there who are always coming over and raiding the pantry for junk food and staying up too late to watch movies. He thinks Dr. Charlotte is very cool, and has decided he wants to be a doctor too. In the five months since that baseball game, he has now made a habit of falling asleep on either Marvin or Whizzer, and has drowsily called Whizzer dad four times now. He’s counting because it makes him feel warm and fuzzy, and he’s starting to get the whole craze about fatherhood now.)
Marvin is trying to open the flour from the wrong end of the bag, and Whizzer has a terrifying vision of the entire kitchen blanketed in white powder. He hurriedly unties his robe and sets it on the table, then takes the bag from Marvin, who swears that yes, of course he knew that was the wrong end, give it back, babe. “This is for your own safety,” Whizzer tells him, and instead tasks him with getting bacon out of the fridge. He notes that Marvin also doesn’t know how to crack an egg, because the entire shell is poking out from the yolk, which he discreetly empties down the sink disposal when Marvin’s head is in the fridge. He manages to get everything together and in a bowl and then poured in little circular puddles on the skillet, watching their edges bubble.
Marvin has been entrusted with the spatula to flip them, and for the moment Whizzer is content to stay behind him, head tucked into the brunette’s neck and arms around his soft midsection. Marvin’s hair is in dire need of a trim, and it curls against his neck and behind his shoulders, all loose curls sticking out at haphazard angles, smelling of shampoo and also a little like their fabric detergent. The tile of the kitchen is cool under his bare feet, but he’s warm from Marvin’s body heat, and he’s gently rocking back and forth with the rise and fall of Marvin’s chest. He sort of feels like he could fall back asleep any minute, but the smell of food is quickly waking him back up. It’s also waking Jason up, if the sounds of muffled padding feet are anything to go by.
“G’morning.” The boy rasps, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “What are you guys doing up so early?”
“Plotting world domination,” Marvin teases, and he gently squeezes the shorter man around the waist. “Making breakfast,” Whizzer tells him, and plants a chaste, closed-mouth kiss to where Marvin’s neck and shoulder meet before he goes to get the plates from the cabinet. Jason’s already moving toward the silverware drawer. He hears the clinking of him fishing forks and knives out, and then the crackle of the radio Marvin keeps on the counter. The end of a slow ballad filters into the kitchen, a few pretty piano arpeggios lingering in the air, and then the DJ is announcing the time and giving the weather forecast. “Since we’re all still waking up, I think we can switch tracks to something a little more upbeat to get you going. You know where I’m going with this, folks - it’s been topping the charts for weeks now, and we here at 104.5 WKDM can’t get it out of our heads…”
The bongos start. Then the electric keyboard. “Oh, God, please no, it’s too early,” Jason whines, and puts his head on the table, covering his ears. Marvin mock-gasps. “It is never too early for this masterpiece, kid.” There’s a sly, devilish smile spreading across his boyfriend's features.
I hear the drums echoing tonight
But she hears only whispers of some quiet conversation
She's coming in, 12:30 flight
The moonlit wings reflect the stars that guide me towards salvation
I stopped an old man along the way
Hoping to find some long forgotten words or ancient melodies
He turned to me as if to say, "Hurry boy, it's waiting there for you,"
“Babe, babe,” Marvin is saying, and is going grabbing Whizzer’s arm, gentle but firm. “dance with me.” “Aw, come on! You guys are so white,” Jason moans, dramatically throwing his head back. At first, he shakes his head, laughs a breathy no, but the child-like look on the shorter man’s face is absolutely irresistible, and he takes Marvin’s calloused hands in his own perfectly manicured ones.
It’s gonna take a lot to take me away from you
There’s nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do
I bless the rains down in Africa
Gonna take some time to do the things we never had
Marvin is waltzing him around the kitchen, which doesn’t match the tempo of the song at all. “Oh, God, my eyes, stop, please,” Jason gasps dramatically, but Whizzer can hear him giggling between the words. In the background, Toto is playing on, singing about wild dogs and the Serengeti.
Hurry, boy, she’s waiting there for you
There’s nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do
It’s gonna take a lot to take me away from you
I bless the rains down in Africa
I bless the rains down in Africa
Jason is laughing at Marvin’s corny dad dance moves, and Marvin is singing along in a voice that’s like melted chocolate, low and smooth, and Whizzer is shocked, he’s never heard him sing before, why has Marvin never sung for him? He files this away for later.
Marvin is taking them around the kitchen now, and when they pass the table, Marvin pulls Jason in, whose giggling turns to full blown cackling when Marvin starts shimmying in time to the chorus, and Whizzer’s heart feels full to the brim, in this warm, sunny kitchen that smells heavenly, with his boyfriend doing horrible dance moves that should’ve been banned years ago and - and he and Marvin's son, their son, laughing and copying them, and Africa playing from that little radio. He never wants this moment to end, and thank God, his camera bag is still hanging on the wall hook, and he’s got his instant camera out before Marvin can protest, and he takes a candid of them dancing, catching the photo as it slides out. Two more get rattled off, one after the other.
“Whizzer, can you show Dad how to do the splits?” Jason calls, over Marvin's spluttered protests, and he leaves the camera on the table. Jason’s cheeks are pink and a smile is splitting his face. It’s Marvin’s smile, and even when tells Jason that no, he can’t do the splits, it still gets impishly wider and he shrugs, then reaches out, and Whizzer can't help but focus how small Jason's hands are in his own, and Jason is pulling him around to dance with him, and the height difference makes it lopsided and awkward but none of them can care.
They dance until the last I bless the rains down in Africa fades into soft static, and the bacon burns, but they can’t bring themselves to care about that either.
They’re happy, here, in this moment, and that is more than enough.