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Hank storms into his lab, slamming drawers shut left and right until a beaker falls and shatters. The noise of equipment breaking has always been enough to snap him out of a rage, and it works now. He carefully sweeps up the glass shards, throwing them away before clambering up to perch on a spinning, squeaky lab chair. He takes off his glasses, lets out a massive gust of air, and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes.
The fact of the matter is, he doesn’t get Alex. The other boy is so different from him that he might as well be speaking Greek (except Hank understands Greek, so he might as well be speaking Polish). They’ve had no comparable life experiences, unless one counts college as prison (which Hank did, on his darker days). Their powers are not even nearly the same (sometimes Hank would kill to be powerful and destructive).
They don’t even have any facial similarities. Where Hank is narrow-jawed and squinty, Alex has a strong, sweeping square jawline. Alex’s chin dimples and his eyes shift from blue to gray to green. Hank has a pointy, witchy chin and eyes that have been crayon-blue since the day he was born.
Hank has no way of getting him, because he has no way of understanding him.
So Hank adapts the best he can.
He pulls out a cheap spiral notebook and a black ballpoint pen. He flips the notebook open, uncaps the pen, and writes in neat capital letters:
Understanding Alex Summers’ Actions: A Case Study
Next, Hank makes a chart, because he understands charts and their neat lines and their careful squares and their not being Alex fucking Summers. (He rarely curses, but Alex seems to bring out the worst in him.) His chart runs:
Subject Name |
Subject Codename |
Alex Summers |
A (prime subject) |
Charles Xavier |
Prof |
Raven Xavier |
R |
Erik Lensherr |
E |
Sean Cassidy |
S |
Moira McTaggert |
M |
He then makes another, smaller diagram that runs:
Presence of physical violence, verbal abuse, or any sort of angry or hurtful action or comment: hostile
Presence of physical affection, kind words, or any other emotional encouragement: kind
That should be enough. Alex isn’t exactly complex.
He begins his log.
--
13 September
9:54 A appeared in my lab directly after breakfast; poked at my glasses and called me bigfoot before leaving. Interaction termed hostile.
12:33 A brought tray bearing lunch (turkey sandwich, glass of milk, an apple). Thanked him & he snorted and ruffled my hair before leaving. Interaction termed kind.
3:02 A stormed into lab waving plate around like a Frisbee, going on about “feeling off.” Tried to get more out of him but he waved me aside. Stormed away. Interaction termed hostile.
5:21 Prof brought A in, having extracted a logical statement from him about problem w/ plate. Requested new measurements, then left. When asked to remove his shirt, A’s face became red and his fists clenched in a belligerent manner. As I measured, A stammered. Interaction termed undetermined.
7:46 A brought a plate from dinner. Said I was missed. Called me bozo, “slugged” me in the shoulder, left. Interaction termed…sweet (?) kind.
--
That night, in bed, Hank pulls out his notebook and pen and scratches new interaction terms into the title page:
Presence of multiple interaction term symptoms: undetermined.
Presence of no kindness, sweetness, or hostility: non-hostile.
That should cover everything else.
--
He takes to carrying the notebook with him on the rare occasions he leaves his lab. Raven notices it one day as they linger outside sipping Coke in the sun, watching Sean and Alex break windows and Charles’ and Erik’s behest.
“What’s in the notebook?” she asks, sliding her hands down the Coke bottle in a devastating fashion (or, well, it would be devastating if she were more masculine or Hank were less, well, attracted to men).
“Not much. Experiment notes.” He sips Coke to have an excuse not to talk, but she sees through him like a pane of glass (perhaps not the best example as a French stained glass window is screamed into oblivion before them).
“That you have to carry away from all of your experiments in your lab? I don’t think so,” she says, and lunges for the notebook. Hank has never been more thankful for his freakishly good reflexes, as he pulls the red notebook back and away from her prying fingers.
“No looking,” he chides, before realizing he’s just set himself up.
“If it’s not much,” Raven says, victory shining in her eyes, “why can’t I see it, hm?”
“Because it would bore you,” he replies, tucking it beneath him.
She leans in close, glass bottle dangling from her fingers. “Really? I’d bet that it’s a really interesting read. I’ve always wanted to read a guy’s diary.”
“What?! No, I mean—it’s not—it’s a journal. A scientific journal. A log. Not a diary.”
“I call bull—“
And then Sean screeches a little too high and the Coke bottles explode in their hands.
Sticky and wet, Hank sends a brief prayer of thanks to the god of big-footed scientists.
--
20 September
9:13 A threw a piece of toast at my head during breakfast. Hit my glasses. A then insisted on taking me to my room to clean up. Very puzzled at his insistence. Interaction termed both kind and hostile.
10:11 A came to my lab. Acting secretive, shuffling feet. Leaned on my tables, broke three beakers and a set of glass petri dishes. I sent him away. Returned to my microscope to find a bar of chocolate and the handwritten note “Sorry.” Very sweet interaction. Interaction termed non-hostile.
12:45 A came and fetched me for lunch with the others “because of the Professor,” but Prof showed no sign that he had summoned me. Interaction termed mysterious.
7:31 R insisted on a movie night with the “family” so “mommy” (presumably Charles) and “daddy” (presumably Erik) could have “adult time.” Still fail to understand these family dynamics. A shoved Sean off the couch and sat beside me. Proceeded to nag, tug, and jab at me through the entire movie. I asked him to stop and he called me a bigfooted bozo with an oversized brain. I attempted to inform him that the size of my brain was irrelevant, and he rolled his eyes and threw popcorn at me. Interaction termed hostile.
12:14 A came to the lab to send me to bed. On my protest, he physically hauled me over his shoulder and refused to let me down until we reached my bedroom. He messed up my hair again and called me a nerd in a strange tone before he walked away. He looked like he wanted to Interaction termed both sweet and hostile.
--
1 October
6:12 Strange shuffling outside my door. Opened it to find A lurking in hallway. Ran as soon as I saw him. Interaction termed potentially hostile.
9:02 A not at breakfast this morning. Planning a grand action? Interaction termed non-event
2:34 A did not bring lunch. Missed until Prof popped in and mentioned missing me. Starting to worry about A. Interaction termed non-event
6:14 A not at dinner. Prof sent E to search him out. I find myself missing his jokes Interaction termed useless
12:13 A appeared in my lab like some sort of ninja very quietly. Placed a hand on my shoulder, mouth directly next to me ear with warm breath and said: “Sorry for stalking your room this morning.” Asked where he had been, he replied: “What, bozo? You missed me?” On my reply (“Not once. It was a pleasant day, actually.”) his face fell. He shrugged and said: “Whatever. I know you secretly want me here.” I wanted to tell him I lied. Interaction termed unclassified
--
In the cold white light of the lab, Hank scratches out:
Presence (more precisely, lack thereof) of prime subject A: non-event.
Presence of words, motions, or actions unable to be understood: unclassified.
Alex is proving trickier than he thought. But he’ll see the big picture in the end. Scientists always do.
--
After the interaction in his lab thirteen minutes into October 2nd, Alex becomes more and more present in Hank’s life, in his room, in his bathroom, in his lab, in whatever room Hank happens to find himself in at any given moment.
He has now woken up five times to find Alex hovering over him, shaking him awake because he “wouldn’t respond to knocks on the door,” which Hank knows is a lie, because he has always been an incredibly light sleeper, his sensitive hearing playing up every tap and creak in the house. Those times (which were awkward, very awkward, because Hank knew he had godawful bedhead and pillowcase crease lines in his cheek) didn’t even compare to the seven times he has found Alex in his bathroom, which is absolutely ridiculous because each room comes with their own bathroom because Charles’ family is terrifyingly wealthy.
But the point is that Alex has his own bathroom. Hank tried, several times, to get reasons out of Alex as to why, exactly, the blond boy was showering in Hank’s bathroom, “taking a whizz” in Hank’s bathroom, walking into Hank’s bathroom while Hank was showering, walking into Hank’s bathroom while Hank was shaving (and he had jumped so high he’d nearly sliced his chin open), or, on one very, very memorable occasion, walking in on Hank jerking off in the shower in Hank’s bathroom. Most of the reasons involved Sean in some way, although one involved Raven, a prank gone wrong, and a shampoo bottle potentially full of a hair-removing chemical.
And Alex truly has no place in his lab. He’s uncomfortable in the cool, around the shining glass implements and beeping, whirring metal machines that give no outward sign as to what they do. He told Hank as much, once.
“I’ve always been a labels guy, you know. Like…I need to know what things do, how they work. I need to be able to take them apart and put them together with my own hands before I can really accept them.”
“You’re probably a kinesthetic learner,” Hank replied, looking up from the report Charles had loaned him to smile briefly at Alex, who was leaning back against a stainless steel table. His skin seemed paler under the light, gleaming like some kind of Italian marble, sculpted by a great artist so that the cold stone seemed as soft as silk. The lights overhead shine down on him, casting his eyes in a strange half-shadow that makes them shimmer.
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“You learn with your hands, by doing.” He returns to the report, only half-aware of Alex.
In what seems like a blink of an eye, the blond is there, pressing against his arm, against all expectations wonderfully warm and soft above a layer of hard muscle. His chin and jaw press gently into the dip of Hank’s shoulder, creating a slight depression in his lab coat. Those well-chiseled arms are sliding in beneath his, fingers splayed against the desk, across the pages of science and equations. Every inhale pushes Alex’s chest against Hank’s back; every exhale brushes back against his ear, catching the shell, warm and wet, making him shiver.
“So do I just have to touch everything, then?” Alex practically purrs.
“No, that’s not how it works,” Hank begins, but Alex huffs in apparent exasperation and whirls away. He’s out the door before Hank can finish his thought.
Bizarre. Utterly, completely incomprehensible.
--
9 October
2:12 Woke up from a nightmare with A shaking me awake. Claims he was in my room because I was “yelling the house down.” S agrees, but insists that A was here before him, despite A’s room being farther away from mine. Interaction termed unclassified.
9:02 A greets me at breakfast with a joke about nightmares. Prof gives him a look and E exchanges a glance with Prof that means A has harder training today. Almost wanted to tell them not to do that to him. Interaction termed hostile (re: bullying)
10:13 During job with Prof, A ran alongside, making comments about my dress (sweatpants and sweatshirt, gray, the same as everyone else), my glasses, and my rate of perspiring. Prof shot him a glance but did nothing else. During rest, A seemed strangely distracted and glassy-eyed and appealingly flushed. Interaction termed hostile.
12:47 A brought lunch today, a sloppy joe leftover from last night. Told me that he had saved the leftovers for me because he saw how much I enjoyed them last night. Also brought me the last bottle of Coke. Interaction termed kind.
2:33 A is complaining about his new plate. Strong urge to punch him rising. Am fighting to suppress it. Interaction termed only vaguely hostile.
6:07 A hit me with a spoonful of peas at dinner. I punched him. He punched me back. Currently holding bag of frozen peas (different from specimen one) to my right eye. Interaction termed hostile.
--
23 October
6:03 Prof suggested I run with A this morning. Ran the path that leads to Xavier Lake. A tried to talk, but I pushed him away because of the hour. I feel kind of bad about it. Interaction termed unclassified.
9:33 Came back from shower to find breakfast over but a note from A beside a plate of eggs and cup of coffee that read ‘For Bozo Only [that doesn’t mean you, Sean]’. Interaction termed kind (? Namecalling=hostile, action=kind).
12:44 A brought lunch today, along with glass of orange juice. Stole one of my research files and made me practically physically assault him to get it back. Wrapped arms around my waist and I could feel his breath on my lips and upon my insistence of getting it back he rolled his eyes, groaned, released me, and dropped the file on the floor before leaving. Interaction termed hostile (despite kind act of bringing lunch)
6:23 S brought my dinner on a tray and said Prof wanted me to watch A and his drills in the bunker to observe the plate. Will go down later. Interaction termed non-event.
7:17 Observed A’s drills in absence of Prof (presumably playing chess with E, which R insists is a metaphor for what she calls, and I quote, “hot monkey sex”). A acted strange throughout, avoiding my eyes and making no verbal replies to any of my suggestions. Interaction termed unclassified (lack of kindness, lack of hostility).
1:32 A came to my lab dressed in only a pair of pajama pants and distractingly well-defined abdominal muscles. He wandered strode meandered swayed sashayed walked in with his hair stuck up in all directions and rumpled and proceeded to my lab table, where he tugged at my hair and took off my glasses and put his face close to mine on the pretense of seeing if my eyes were bloodshot. His breath was fresh, belying the fact that he appeared to have just woken up. He drifted closer until our noses were nearly brushing in contact. I watched his eyes move up and down my face and I wanted to move closer. I asked him what was wrong and he cried out and threw his hands above his head and stormed out. Interaction termed what on earth just happened.
--
He continues his morning runs with Alex as per Charles’ suggestion. They rise early, before the sun, and take the path up to Xavier Lake, a road covered in gravel and lined with massive oak trees with leaves in a gorgeous blossom of red and orange and yellow. Most mornings they complete the jog there, the rest, and the return journey in silence, but one morning two days before Halloween when they reach the lake (just as the sun’s rising, lighting the whole place in glorious flecks of white and blue and golden-white shimmers glowing against the autumn color blaze), Alex sits down right next to him on what Hank has come to think of as his rock.
“It’s beautiful,” Alex says, leaning back on his arms, his right one pressed taut against Hank’s left.
“Yeah,” Hank agrees, because it is, one of the most beautiful things he’s seen in a long time.
“I…I really like places like this,” Alex begins, and it sounds like a confession. “Big, open places. No walls. I was surrounded by walls for a long time, you know. In prison, and before that, in my foster homes. There was this one where I had to sleep in a closet. I think I stayed there for about a month.”
Hank feels that this deserves some sort of deeper response than a contemplative nod and “mm-hmm,” so he tries to offer up his own story. “In college, I was…you know, I was the little kid in the dormitories, and sometimes, when the bigger guys would go out and get drunk, they would come back and stuff me under the bed in my dorm. Then they’d sit all around it on the floor so that I couldn’t get out. I had to wait until they’d all passed out until I could wriggle away.”
Alex is quiet for a moment. “Being a kid sucks,” he finally says, and Hank is surprised enough that the words tear a laugh from him before he can think.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “It does.”
They jog back to the house instead of sprinting, talking companionably about happier or stranger events from their childhoods.
--
Hank is still smiling from the memory of that friendly return trip when he runs into Sean and Alex on the way to dinner. He waves to both of them and greets Alex with, “Hey. Dinner smells good, yeah?”
“I can’t smell anything. Nose getting bigger too, bozo?” Alex replies. Sean hits Alex half-heartedly, and Hank can feel the warm feeling in his chest turning to ice.
“Maybe,” he replies, and does an abrupt about-face, and goes back to his lab.
He locks the door and ignores Alex’s hammering knocks and pleading and threatening entreaties.
--
13 December
6:02 Returned from my solitary jog to find A waiting for me at the kitchen table. Asked where I’d gone, I replied: “Jogging,” to which he in turn said: “Without me?” On my affirmative answer, A stormed out of the room. Interaction termed hostile.
11:31 A brought me a particularly extravagant lunch today—tray with a massive sandwich, a bowl of freshly cut chilled fruit, a Coke, a glass of iced tea, a bag of chips, and a small cup of chocolate pudding. Set it down and fled rushed away with no explanation. Interaction termed kind.
3:26 A brought me his plate, which had been torn from his vest. Apologized profusely and hovered very close to me as I repaired it. Almost sweet. Interaction termed kind.
5:45 A switched seats with R at dinner to sit next to me. Slid me extra rolls from his plate, fought S for the last slice of roast and then gave it to me. I remain utterly mystified. Interaction termed kind.
9:24 A came to my lab, took my by the arm, and forcibly sent me back to my room. Insisted that I get some sleep. Lingered by me for a few moments and looked as though he wanted to speak before leaving, presumably to go his own room. Interaction termed undefined (physical contact indicates cruel, but intention was kind.)
--
After this, Hank notices that Alex is waking up earlier and earlier to catch him as he goes out on his jogs. He puts it down to competitive spirit, and attempts to make sure that nothing like what happened before (and his heart aches when he thinks about that gorgeous sunrise and wonderful morning) happens again.
--
17 December
8:03 Prof announced a Secret Santa project today at breakfast. Passed around a top hat (hypothesis: all Englishmen own top hats) with all our names in it. Prof looked suspiciously gleeful, E looked contemplative, R looked disappointed, S looked stoned high on something I suspect he grows himself like normal, and A looked like he won the lottery. I pulled R’s name out of the hat but I wish I’d gotten A’s. A punched me in the shoulder (although possibly in a friendly “guy” fashion). Interaction termed non-hostile.
12:34 A brought me lunch and tried to guess who I had for my Secret Santa. He made jokes about what I could get other people and we both wound up laughing for half an hour and I refused to tell him who I had. When asked about his, he tapped the side of his nose, winked in a very distracting manner, and left. Interaction termed kind (fun, even).
3:47 A appeared in my lab like a ninja, again, it’s like he was a cat in another life and dragged me outside because apparently jogging isn’t enough fresh air and my lungs will “shrivel up and die.” Attempted to point out of physical impossibility of this, but A put his hand softly but firmly against my lips mouth and told me that he wanted to spend more time with me. Spent two hours out by the lake, talking. A is attempting to teach me to skip stones. Interaction termed kind.
7:56 A met me at my lab to walk me down to dinner, pulled my chair out for me, served my plate, held the kitchen door open for me, and walked me back to my lab after. Made amiable small talk. Said an early goodnight and looked as if he was going to say something else. Interaction termed extremely sweet kind.
--
Hank can’t remember the last time he bought and decorated a Christmas tree. His father had been busy at the nuclear plant, and his mother had been much too focused on getting him ahead in life despite his long arms and gangly legs. He thinks the most Christmas-spirited day he can recall is when he was given a candy-cane pen to fill out his scholarship applications when he was eight.
Charles probably knows all this without even having to read his mind, just as Charles probably knows that most of their motley crew don’t have the best holiday track record either. So he drags all of them out into the woods and has them pick out a tree as a group. They drag it inside, shaking the snow off its evergreen boughs, and set it up in a stand in the main living room.
Tinsel packages explode around the living room; Alex makes a game of lobbing ornaments at the branches and seeing which stick; Sean tries to hum high-pitched harmonies to Dean Martin’s Christmas crooning; Erik and Charles are almost certainly drunk as they fall over themselves attempting to string the lights up on the tree; Raven is unwrapping ornaments and entertaining Hank with stories of Christmases past in the Xavier mansion; and Hank himself has been placed in charge of hot cocoa, which he apparently has a knack for making.
As the evening goes on, the fireplace is lit and they gather around it. Raven lounges like an oversized cat on the rug beside the fire, Charles and Erik are surprisingly (well, the surprising part is that they’re in public) close on the loveseat, Sean is draped over two ottomans he dragged from somewhere, and Hank is curled up in an armchair turned a little away from the pervasive heat of the fire. His eyelids are drooping, and his glasses are pressing against the side of his nose in a manner that is slightly uncomfortable. He is too languid to care at the moment.
Alex wanders into the room from the kitchen, a mug of Hank’s hot chocolate in his hands. He scans for an empty seat and, finding none, promptly creates one in Hank’s lap.
He is too warm and sated to squirm or even complain, so he accommodates instead, shifting backward and allowing Alex’s bulkier, more muscular frame to lean against his. Alex hums his appreciation and sips at his mug of chocolate.
The world, warm and fuzzy at the edges, blurs inwards. When Hank wakes the following morning, with a crick in his neck and legs that spike with pins and needles, it is to find Alex still in his lap with a blanket draped over both of them.
--
Charles wakes them all on Christmas Day with a wave of giddy happiness that could rival a five-year-old’s. They all gather in the main living room beneath their very unique Christmas tree, cross-legged opposite the fire like small children at sleep-away camp.
Charles goes first, unwrapping his present flap by flap, carefully peeling away the tape. Hank had him pegged for the paper-saving type from the moment he met him, actually, in that way that one can just tell. He reveals a beautifully crafted metal object, a delicate twirling sphere of ribbons and curls that dances in a mind-bending fashion before all their eyes. He looks at Erik (Raven leans over to Hank and whispers, “Aw, look, they’re eye-making-love,” and he bites back a laugh and swats her lightly on the knee) and says, “Thank you, my friend.” (In his ear, Raven gags. He pinches her arm.)
Next goes Erik, who, of course, gets a completely inexplicable copy of The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson from Charles. Erik is, equally inexplicably, delighted, and Hank swears he sees a brief glint of a tear when he discovers aloud the handwritten version of There is another sky Charles wrote on the title page.
(“Oh my god, we’re living in a Mills & Boon novel,” Raven moans to him quietly, massaging her temples in fake frustration. “At least it’s not a James Joyce love letter,” replies Hank, which Raven takes as her cue to choke on air.)
Then comes Raven, who presents, with great flourish, two Elvis records to go with the record player they recently unearthed in his room, as well as a large folded card. There is a picture of all of them on the front (Moira had taken it, a few months ago), and she has had everyone sign the inside, which reads, “Nollaig Shona Duit.”
“We had talked a few times about how much you missed Ireland, so I used the encyclopedia to look up a few traditions. And it mentioned, you know, how people send cards around to their friends about what’s going on in their lives. And I figured, you already know what’s going on in our lives, so I’d just get a card to go with the—”
Sean pounces on her with a hug, which she returns after getting her bearings.
Hank is next, producing his gift for Raven. “I, well, I wanted to give you something special, and I know how much you liked the paintings in the East Wing that got destroyed, and I did some art and art history in college, so I just tried to kind of go with what I could remember, and I’ve always liked Van Gogh anyway, so I used his style of flowers but in blue…” It’s in a small frame on cheap canvas, but Raven is wearing a wide smile and Charles is nodding approvingly in the background.
“Thank you, Hank. It’s beautiful.”
Sean goes after that, giving his gift to Alex.
After they calm Alex down (“I’m sorry man, I’m sorry!”), they explain to Sean that writing “Red Hula Hoop of Doom” on a red sparkly Hula Hoop for Alex is not really that funny. Sean retreats to the kitchen, Raven to her room to hang the painting. Charles follows Sean to attempt to calm him down, and Erik follows, trailing like a large, muscular, good-looking, turtleneck-wearing puppy.
Alex is last, then, and it suits him fine. The others are fairly distracted by now, which leaves him free to slide himself over to Hank, a small, badly-wrapped box in his hands.
It turns out to be a cardboard box, which contains a single notecard. On the front it reads, “I’m sorry.”
On the back it reads, “Please tell me what you decide.”
Hank frowns, flips the card again, looks at Alex.
“What am I supposed to be deciding?”
“How you feel. About me. Us. You know.”
“Not really…” he starts, and then Alex goes nuts.
“You are a complete moron!”
The words are sharp, louder than his response had called for. Alex is on his feet now, pacing, pulling at his hair. Hank stands and rears back, offended, hands flying to his glasses in what he had long ago recognized as a defense mechanism. “According to my test scores,” he begins, but Alex cuts him off.
“I don’t give a flying rat’s ass about your test scores, Hank! They are clearly not even closely related to real fucking life, and you wanna know how I know that?! It’s because I have been making myself as blatantly obvious as I know how without spelling it out for you, and you still have no clue!”
“Spelling what out?!” Hank retorts, barely able to form coherent words. “I—you—you confused me so much that I had to start a journal to try to make some sense of what you were trying to say—”
“A journal?!” Alex cries as he throws his hands in the air. “A goddamn journal?! You wrote about me in your diary?!”
“It’s not—I don’t—a scientific journal! For records! Because you go back and forth and back and forth, ‘oh, let’s punch Hank in the nose,’ ‘oh wait, let’s bring Hank lunch,’ ‘maybe calling Hank a bigfoot is a good idea, that’s sure to destroy his self-esteem,’ ‘I know, I’ll make Hank feel like he can trust me, that we could be friends!’ I got a little confused.”
“Oh my freaking god,” Alex groans, pushing his hands through that gorgeous mane of blond hair. “Have you ever even interacted with a girl? Like, as more than scientist and test subject?”
“What? Yes. No. Maybe. What does it matter?!”
“It matters, Hank, because that’s how emotionally stunted guys like me act around girls. Because I was pulling your girly nerdy bozo pigtails, because I’m just the delinquent with the flaming red plasma Hula-Hoops who apparently can’t get your attention even when I am shouting in your face.”
“It would help if I could understand what you were shouting about!” Hank cries, torn between wanting to shake Alex like a ragdoll, to pound the table into the ground, or to cry like a two year old.
“Hank, you’re an idiot! I’m standing here trying to tell you that I like you and I want to hug you and kiss you and, and, and, have your mutant bigfoot babies, because I am in love with you!”
The silence rings until Hank clears his throat.
“Statistically, the chances that our children would have my feet is—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Alex says, and kisses him.
--
26 December
?:?? Early. A is resting his head on my chest as I write, making faces and kissing my stomach, nuzzling my skin. Interaction termed perfect.