Work Text:
Penny:
Micah met us in the driveway when we got to his family home in the suburbs of Chicago. The last half hour of the drive had me anxious as we drew closer to the one I loved.
Things have been so weird between us lately, I couldn’t wait to see him, reignite the spark that an ocean between us had dimmed.
My door is open before the car settles into park. We embrace and I can feel Micah smile against my cheek and I pull back to see his face. I love his smile. The tightness in the corner of his mouth where he’s trying to contain himself. Is that a man thing? Trying to control your joy? I smile with my whole face. Or, some men, that is. Simon is a man and he has the toothiest, loudest smile I have ever seen. Bigger than mine, and certainly more vocal. He makes little squealing sounds under his breath when he’s happy. I find it annoying sometimes, actually.
“I missed you,” he hums into my ear and I put a hand on his cheek.
“This is real,” I think. I am here and so is he and I can feel his warmth under my palm, “we are real.” It’s hard to remember sometimes.
He welcomes us inside, but his mother doesn’t recognize me. My heart sinks. “Your hair is different!” she tries to explain, but I know what she means to say is, “you’ve been gone too long.”
Micah’s bedroom walls are covered with pictures. He has a skilled eye for photography. And still uses and develops his own film, despite the fact that he could capture a clearer image with magic, or even his Normal smartphone. I recognize some of them. He went through 2 rolls the last time I was here. Documented everything. I smile at one of me eating cereal at his kitchen counter. A few he didn’t hang up. The one after we fought about who should move; the fight I lost. Where we’re in a diner and I’m sunk into the seat holding a coffee mug wishing I had tea. That didn’t make the wall, nor the one taken when the sun was barely high enough to show me wrapped up in his sheets.
Most of the people in these photos I don’t recognize. Some I can only identify because I’ve seen their facebook page. He eagerly shows Simon one of me with a giant turkey hat, from the year I stayed for Thanksgiving and Baz seems in heaven flipping through the boxes of vinyl he has laid out on the floor.
He wants to take us out to show us the town but we’re all exhausted from travel. Instead he makes us sandwiches and we fall asleep, sprawled across his living room furniture. The last thing I see before I drift off to the sounds of Friends playing on the telly, is Simon nestled between Baz’s legs with his head resting on his boyfriend’s chest. Sometimes I worry about them, then I see them sleep; entangled together like they share a body.
We do manage the energy to let Micah drag us into the city for dinner. We get deep dish pizza because Simon insists, even though Micah and I tried our best to convince him a “authentic” Chicago experience would be better found in side street dives then Navy Pier.
Somehow he has the stomach to eat half of one himself and still want to go dancing after dinner.
Micah brings us to a revived lounge bar and Simon and Baz sit a few tables down to give us some privacy.
All night Micah has been talking. He’s going over all the classes he is taking at university, the other students, what it was like when he came here last, who was with and what they drank and what songs the band played. He hasn’t asked me anything aside from, “are you cold?” and “would you like another drink?” And I want to be mad, but honestly I’m grateful. I don’t know enough details of his life at this point to know what to ask. It’s been the same with me. When he finishes a story I launch into tales of the adventures I’ve had back home, but he doesn’t know to ask about what happened after the White Chapel. He doesn’t know that Simon never fully bounced back. He just sits there and listens thoughtfully. I know he’s not being rude, he’s trying, just like I am to find our rhythm.
He asks me to dance and I follow. It’s an old jazz standard playing. The trumpet echoes through the room, as we sway in place. I have a hand on his chest, just below the shoulder, and the other is holding his own. I can feel his breathing under my hand, I can smell the pine scented shampoo he uses, “this is real,” I think.
His eyes look lost, like they are seeing me but the picture is overexposed and blurry. “I’m here,” I whisper, but I don’t know if I’m telling or asking.
I see him try to relax, but our timing is off and I keep stepping on his feet.
He looks at me, a question, and I nod.
We dance until the song fades. He kisses me, it’s soft and it’s sad and then it’s over.
“Did Micah run off to the bar?” Simon asks, he’s holding onto Baz and they’re sharing the same wild smile.
“No,” I tell him, “Micah left.”
“Oh,” he says confused, “is he coming back?”
I shake my head, then he understands.
Simon
“What’s the matter?” I ask at the bar.
“Nothing,” he answers and I raise an eyebrow.
“I miss…” he starts to say, but then stops. That’s not what this trip is about, I think. The non-answers are not going to follow us across an ocean. He regains his courage and finishes the thought, “you.”
“I’m here,” I tell him.
“I know,” Baz explains, “I just don’t feel.” I don’t know if there is meant to be more to that, but he doesn’t look like he’s going to say anything else. Instead, I take his hand, “let’s dance.”
“Dinner was weird,” Baz says as we sway. “Yeah,” I agree, Micah and Penny kept tripping over each other’s words.
“Do you think they’re alright?” he asks.
“Oh, I’m sure they’re fine. They’ve just been apart too long.”
“I know the feeling,” he whispers and I frown. “What are we doing, Simon?” he asks.
“What? In America? Seeing Agatha.”
He raises an eyebrow, “you know what I mean.”
I look to see Penny and Micah dancing on the other side of the floor. She whispers something in his ear and he nods.
“We’re trying to find the rhythm,” I tell him. I pull him to my chest and lead him in a waltz. It’s entirely wrong for what the band is playing, but we’re on our own time.