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“You have something on your face,” Santi remarks, sliding his thumb along the corner of your mouth. Your lips part in surprise when he sticks the finger in his mouth, gently sucking off sugar residue and whipped cream.
Luckily, you’re able to make a quick recovery, scrunching your nose as you exclaim, “Ew, Santi, you’re awful!’ You say it with a smile though, and he smiles back with a cheeky and objectively unapologetic shrug as you steal an extra bite of the funnel cake you’re sharing just to spite him.
You’d finally convinced him to go to the fair with you, abandoning his dive bars and angst for some good old fashioned child-like joy. It had taken ages of tolerating Pope’s excuses before he had finally caved, right in time for the event. The sun is shining; Summer is not doing its job of turning into Autumn, the days long and hot. You don’t mind, though, because you’re here, and Santi is here, and a myriad of nearly broken rides and fried food is here, so you truly can’t find any room in your heart to complain about the sun or any UV damage you may be earning.
“You know you love me,” Santi jests, turning towards you with a grin.
You do. But you’re not sure that he knows, and you’re even less sure he feels as unplatonic as you do, so you opt instead to lean in and whisper conspiratorially, “Three carts down they’re selling hard lemonade.”
“Then we have to stage a heist,” Santi responds, echoing your enthusiasm as if it’s the easiest thing in the world.
“You’re right! I have a plan. I’ll give them rectangular green pieces of paper, and they’ll be so scared that they give us all of their wares,” you joke, reaching into your bag for your wallet.
Santi grabs your arm, stopping you. “It’s a good plan, but it’s not gonna work.”
“What?! Why ever not?” You tease in your best Bonnie Parker impression.
“I’m more experienced at heisting than you, it’s gotta be me.”
You snort, shoving Santi’s arm. “You’re awful.”
“C’mon, Trouble, we’ve got a heist to plan.” Santi hooks his arm with yours and leads you to the cart.
It's like that the whole day. You and Santi parroting off of each other's energy and laughter until the sun finally sets and you both have your fair share of liquid courage in you. You can’t bear the thought of leaving yet, though. Whenever you’re with Santi, all you can do is wish that time would stand still. You could spend eternity wrapped in his gaze, his smile, his obnoxious arrogance that has somehow become your favorite thing in the world.
When you see a band playing at the center pavilion, colorful lights shining on their instruments—banjo, and fiddle, and harmonica (the cornbread of the musical world)---It takes you about three seconds of contemplation before you grab Santi’s hand, dragging him to the center of the grassy dance floor.
You’ve danced with Santi before, but not like this. That was all grinding in a crowded room, sweating and laughing as you gave the boys something to write home about. Tonight feels different. Like your heart is exposed, bared to him, and all he needs to do is reach out; To embrace or break it. Lights are strung above the two of you, but their shine doesn’t nearly match the sparkle in his eyes even as he tells you that the music isn’t even that good, spoken in your ear to be heard over the din of the crowd, his warm breath a gentle caress.
“I love you,” you say. You have to yell it over the noise so that Santi is able to hear you, and you do. You don’t know what has possessed you, and you face floods with heat. You nervously look into those big brown eyes, which are doing whatever sort of mental math they feel is necessary to understand the weight of what you have just told him.
It’s Santi who drags you off this time, managing to find a hidden little corner filled with honeysuckle and vines, where the music is that much quieter and the lights more dim.
“What?” He says it like he wants to be sure. Like he’s asking for a pinkie promise that you’ve never wanted to give more.
“I love you,” you breathe. “Do you want me to say it again? I love you, I love you, I love yo—”
He cuts you off, pulling you in by the waist and pressing his soft lips against yours. The kiss is filled with yearning; With the absolution of a promise made to the man who you’ve loved in every past life you might have had. When the two of you break away, Santi leans his forehead against yours as you catch your breath.
“You’re such an asshole,” He says with a smile.
You return it, leaning your head into the crux of his shoulder. “Say it back.”
“I love you.”