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I want him to hold my hand.
Hold my hand hold my hand hold my hand--
I’m practically trying to use the force to will him to hold it. Okay, I’m not being unrealistic or something; my hand is right there, he could so take it at any moment. It’s dangling right under the table for him to grasp. Right. There.
So why won’t he take it?
For fuck’s sake, it’s not like we haven’t ever held hands before. I mean, I don’t think that we’re still at first base like middle schoolers. If anything, we’d be at base thirty-five, if it existed.
Is he shy? No, that would mean he wouldn’t mind holding it under the table--nobody’s standing up, and we’re sitting in the back. Nobody’s going to go get a coffee or sharpen their pencil and catch a glimpse.
Hold. My. Fucking. Hand.
I want to give up on this; I’ve waited for thirty minutes. It’s obvious he isn’t going to do what I want (which isn’t exactly new… he’s very stubborn). But I have got to stay strong. It’s probably a test. Yeah. He’s waiting for me to give up, and then he’ll hold his hand down in some sick game of ‘I win, you lose’.
Will I have to wait for an hour? Or forever? I feel like I’m going through withdrawal of some sorts. Ivan withdrawal. My body’s confused as to why I suddenly don’t have the feel of a warm, gloved Russian hand on mine. Yup. Totally not my mind that’s been saying I miss you so much for the past three weeks. Ever since our impromptu “national relations meeting” in Moscow, our… er… relationship (?) has been distant. Would we be called a relationship?
Forty-five minutes now.
Coffee break in two minutes.
I pass him a note.
Wanna grab a Starbucks instead of this instant crap? I know how much you love yourself a pumpkin spice…
He doesn’t break his eyes away from the presentation, but I see a ghost of a smile on his lips as he writes an answer on the paper, the words a bit lopsided.
Sounds good ^J^
One more minute.
Suddenly I feel really bad about… this. I didn’t make more than a couple efforts to contact him throughout those three weeks. And every time he was busy, which wasn’t his fault. He tried to call me sometimes, but I was busy, too. I know he’s shy about calling, so it was probably really disappointing when I said I had to go meet France, or have a conference with Germany, or take a trip to Japan. I wish I would’ve even texted him. He sucks at it, but it would’ve been a nice sentiment, right? I--
“Sweet! Coffee break! Ludwig, come have espresso with me!”
Coffee.
Without a word, both Ivan and I begin to walk out the entrance doors and down the street to the Starbucks. We order our drinks, and decide to sit down for a few minutes.
You can do this, Al.
Of course, I say whatever comes to mind first.
“Sorry--”
“Sorry--”
We both start, then stop.
“You first.”
“No, you. I insist.”
“Dude. Go first.”
He pauses, as if thinking over whether or not he should accept it.
“Fine. I…” He breathes, leaning his head on his hands, elbows propped on the short window bar. “Would like to apologize. I didn’t--”
“You’re apologizing? What? I didn’t text you, or try and schedule a time to Skype, or anything! Why are you apologizing?”
Ivan looks taken aback, like he meant to say the same things. “I didn’t do that, either. And I think you wanted me to hold your hand at the meeting, but I was not sure if you did or not, or if you were mad at me, so I backed off.”
“I’m not mad!” I rush to say. Mad at him? Hell, if anything, I’m mad at myself. “I’m not mad. Just… Hold it now?”
I know I must be blushing up a storm, and I sound like I’m from a BL novel, but dammit, I have been waiting almost an hour for this and hell if I don’t get my hand holding.
He doesn’t hesitate to hold my hand, and I can’t say that I’m not glad.
We’re still holding hands. It didn’t take more than a couple minutes to finish our coffee, and I’m pretty sure we’re going to be the earliest ones there.
We step through the entrance to the building, and nobody’s there. Ivan laces our fingers together, and I don’t really mind.
Is everyone still out?
We open the doors into the meeting hall, and I swear I’ve never been so embarrassed. Ever. My face is probably a solid crimson. Oh god.
Everyone is here.
Everyone.
But everyone’s preoccupied with their own business. Thank the lord.
We sit down in our seats, and I feel comforted that he’s still holding my hand. How is he not embarrassed? Oh, wait. He doesn’t have family in here. Lucky bastard.
I think that… maybe they won’t mind. What if they just went with it? Spared me the mortification?
What am I thinking. Of course they’re going to make fun of me. I can just hear the passive-aggressive way Mattie will say, “Well this is… unexpected.” as he stares daggers into Ivan’s back.
“Hey, Al,” I hear my brother greet from the entrance. Walking toward me. Uh oh. “How’s it going?”
“P-Pretty great, bro, thanks for askin’. Gotta go to a little conference with my boss after this. Yuck.”
Mattie makes a face. “Ew. I can’t stand those. It’s like they’re prying into your conscience with their eyes.”
One-on-one conferences with your boss mean that, once a year, they can pry into any and every aspect of your life--without objections! I really hope that they don’t ask about any ‘romance’. Ivan would be hard to explain to the man whose predecessors followed me through the Cold War… and the last years prior to this development.
“Agreed.”
…
“Alright, everyone to their seats.” Germany (I’d call him Lud like I used to, but he hates that nickname when in public) drones tiredly. He looks done with everyone’s shit, which was probably true. Everybody follows their orders, but they still keep chatting amongst themselves.
“Psst!” Mattie taps on the table in his seat across from mine.
“What?” I whisper back.
“I need to talk with you! You go first; I’ll meet you in the hall.”
I stand up from my seat and almost take a step. Almost being the key word, since a certain weight holds me back. We’re still holding hands. But this time? Where everyone looks at me.
For some reason I can’t seem to be shocked. Oops. Oh well. But I can predict what happens after this, and that makes me groan.
“Gah, just wake me up from this nightmare!”
And that’s when I woke up. In my lover’s arms. In bed. Ivan stares at me curiously, but tiredly.
“You told me to wake you up.” He says.
“I…” I want to argue, but technically, it was the truth. I probably mumbled it in my sleep and it woke him up. “I guess I did. Huh. Hey, sorry about wakin’ you up, sugar.” I yawn, and curl back up into his collarbone. “Can you read the clock? I can’t see it.”
“It’s two thirty-five. Rest, now, Зайчик.” Even when he calls me fucking ‘bunny’ I get butterflies.
I’m in deep, huh?