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Chuck’s tshirt is damp after his run, it’s sticking to his shoulders, clammy under his jacket in the cold autumn morning. The line at the bagel place on a Sunday is out the door, but he knows if he leaves, it’ll just be twice as long when he comes back. Besides, he needs coffee like air right now and he’s already here, and if he has to wait for Yancy to get out of bed, Chuck won’t eat until noon.
The line creeps forward, for every three people who know exactly what they want, there’s one who just stands there, mouth gaping open like a fish, trying to decide what to order. He resists the urge to pull his phone off the armband he uses for running, to scroll through the paper while he waits. Chuck knows it’ll be waiting at home, the broadsheet spread across their duvet, Yancy hiding the sport section until Chuck finishes eating, because studying the small footie columns will destroy anything that’s left of Chuck’s conversational skills.
He’s fourth from the register, when sure enough, some bloke starts throwing a hissy that the onion bagels are sold out and it’ll be twenty minutes for another batch to bake off. Crossing his arms over his chest, it’s actually quite a show, counting how many different shades of purple this guy’s face can go before he stomps off in a rage.
Chuck hides a smile when someone behind him mutters about the man’s temper. A year earlier, he’d have been there, probably shaking his fist while deprived of caffeine and ready to knock something out. Now, well. He’s no angel, but coming back from the edge of death puts the rage over some circles of bread in perspective.
Until he gets to the front, is promptly informed that the everything bagels are out for the day, and momentarily wants to thump his fist against the counter. (He said he wasn’t an angel.) He takes a deep breath, can feel the pointed glares of everyone behind him and scans the bins, picks out something else.
“Sesame and poppy seed, veg on the first, easy regular on the second. Two of the largest coffees you have.”
Chuck adds two sugars to his coffee, nearly burning his tongue when he can’t be bothered to wait for it to cool, snaps a lid on the second. Gripping the bag in his fist, Chuck walks the three blocks back to where they’re staying, a sublet Yancy found when they decided to stay in New York longer than a few weeks.
He nods to the woman in the elevator, rides in silence to the 12th floor. He has to juggle for his key, nearly loses his coffee, but manages to get inside, down the hall without a casualty. Sure enough, the morning sun streams through the east windows, flooding the bed in light. Yancy’s got his reading glasses on, the ones Chuck ribs him mercilessly about wearing, even though secretly they give off this sexy professor vibe that makes Chuck want to bang him on the desk in the study. Yancy looks up, wrapped in the sheets and the sweater Raleigh had given him as a bon voyage gift, and a lazy grin spreads across his face.
“Morning.” His voice is sleep-rough and Yancy shoves the paper aside. Chuck sets the bagels on the nightstand, makes room for the coffee, and kicks off his shoes. He throws a knee over Yancy’s hips, settles down and grasps his face between his hands. Yancy tastes like toothpaste and protests against Chuck’s mouth when his hands slide over the sweat-damp skin of Chuck’s back.
A minute, maybe two later, Yancy pulls back, glasses slightly askew and hair mussed from Chuck’s wandering hands.
“Hope you brought me coffee, too.” Chuck shoves off of Yancy, grabs his own cup, and lies back for a moment.
“Not even gonna shower first, huh?” There’s a smile though in his words, and Chuck can feel the thump of a bagel land on his chest.
“Changing the sheets later anyways.” He turns his head to see Yancy take a bite, and sets his coffee back down on his side of the bed. Chuck thumbs away the smear of cream cheese, brushes the poppy seeds off Yancy’s shirt. “Way you eat, you should probably join me.”
Yancy’s eyebrow arches over the rim of his frames and he chews thoughtfully. “Yeah, I can get behind that idea.”
Chuck just laughs as he unwraps his breakfast. “Damn well better. You know how long I stood in line for that bagel you’re stuffing down your throat?”
Yancy shrugs. “Promise I’ll make it up to you.” He takes another bite and settles back against the wall of pillows he’s created for himself and Chuck listens to Yancy describe a movie he read about in the arts supplement, nodding when he suggests they should try to catch it later in the week. It doesn’t sound particularly gripping to Chuck, but they’ve got the time now to spend on movies they only have a passing interest in, so it really doesn’t matter.
The morning’s slow and easy, like Sundays should be. Chuck balls up the waxed paper lying on his chest, drops it in the paper bag by the mattress, and kisses Yancy once more, arms wrapping around him, fumbling for the sport section neatly folded beneath one of the cushions, like it was waiting for him to find it.