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Once in the bathroom and again at the toaster, twice after they bickered about who would restock the bath salts and most notably, when David was doing nothing at all, lost in his own thoughts until he’d felt Patrick’s gaze on him from across the store and their eyes had met and they shared a smile for the fifth time today.
He’s done this before, counted their interactions, sometimes kisses, or touches, or how often they have sex. Even now, as he looks down at the gold encircling his fingers, with the assuredness of what they represent, he can’t stop that small bruised part of himself from wanting to quantify. He doesn’t like feeling this way, unsteady, questioning if what he’s found with Patrick is the forever thing he’s been promised. He knows, deep down, on the other side of the bruise, that it is. But he has to go poking at it every once in a while for reasons he just can’t seem to explain.
Patrick’s gone home for the night already, leaving him alone, eyes cast out the window as the sunset turns the top of the trees and the café a deep, burnished orange. This town, it’s far from anything David would consider beautiful, but he feels a tiny tug at his gut and a bit of tightness building behind his eyes just watching, mentally tying his worries to the sun, hoping it will take them away as it disappears in a streak of gold and purples below the horizon.
His phone on the counter rumbles against the wood and he knows it’s Patrick, and that certainty, it reminds him that these worries come from his past, not his present.
Patrick: Ordered some sushi and tempura for dinner. Come home soon.
David lifts his hand to his mouth and presses the pads of his fingertips to his lips, tracing his own smile as he looks down at his husband’s text.
That’s six.
Patrick’s smiling right now, too. He doesn’t have to be there to know that’s true.
There’s still a rumble of vulnerability in his tummy, but he steps into it, knowing it’s the only way he’s found his way to the other side.
David: I love you
Patrick: love you, too.
Patrick: everything okay?
Of course he knows. He always seems to. Probably because he loves David as much as David loves him. No, not probably. Definitely.
David: just having a day
Patrick: I had a feeling. Come home to me.
David’s bottom lip has started to quiver and he pushes down on Patrick’s last message so he can heart it, giving him an out from having to find an appropriate response. He’s not in an adequate frame of mind to match Patrick’s effortless romanticism.
Pressing the keys that pops open the till on the register, he takes it to the safe and shoves it in uncounted, knowing it can wait until the morning. Seeing his husband as soon as possible cannot. During his four mile drive home a knot of nervousness begins to form in his gut and he prepares himself for the initial anxiety of seeing Patrick’s face, full of all that knowing.
But as he pulls into the driveway and he can see the glow of their kitchen light warming the windowpane and the row of Patrick’s tomato plants lining the side of the house, legs David had worried would be unsteady feel strong as he turns his key in the lock of the side door and pushes himself inside. Without really thinking about it, he places his bag in its usual place on the bench and his keys get hung on the hook next to Patrick’s and before he knows it, he’s standing in the kitchen and his husband is pushing himself to his feet from where he’d been waiting at their table and…
Seven.
Sure. Patrick’s face is full of all the knowing David had been anxious about but he also has strong arms pulling David in close and lips whispering gentle words into the crook of his neck and a heart, beating so rapidly that David can feel it matching the pounding rhythm of his own.
David’s hands are shaking a little when he guides Patrick’s head up, but he needs to see his beautiful, expressive eyes and when he does, the knotted mess in his belly begins to unravel and all that’s left for him to do is find his husband’s mouth for a kiss.
One.
He tastes like funnel cake and David knows he’s snuck a piece of tempura and something about that just makes him want to kiss him again.
Two.
And again.
Three.
He loses count after that.
Not even the knowledge that cold tempura is unsalvageable can stop David from tugging at the hem of Patrick’s henley, in search of skin and connection as he finds he’s fully on the other side of the bruise.
“The tempura,” Patrick warns, halfheartedly as his hands are currently tugging at the drawstring of David’s pants.
Chuckling a little at how in sync they are, David rakes his fingernails up Patrick’s back as he walks him backwards towards their couch, nibbling affectionately at the corner of his mouth.
“We can order more.”