Work Text:
“I want to be a horse.”
“Understandable, completely reasonable.”
Anthony looks up from his crossword to stare at Simon in horror.
“A big horse,” Amelia clarifies. Simon nods.
“Of course. No other option. We can’t have you be a baby horse, now, can we?”
“Simon?” Anthony hisses.
Simon, predictably, ignores him.
“Now,” he says, crouching and letting Amelia clamber onto his shoulders, “the biggest question is what color are we going to be. We could be brown, or white—”
“I want to be purple.”
That makes Simon pause, and Anthony takes the opportunity to sweep Amelia into his arms, newspaper crossword tossed aside. She settles immediately into his arms, one arm under her bottom and one across her back, keeping her steady and secure in his arms. A thumb makes its way to her mouth.
“We can make it purple,” Anthony says. “Or, how about this— what if daddy’s the horse and you can be a cowgirl?”
“I don’t want to be a cow,” she says around her thumb, words distinguishable through months of Anthony’s self-training than true intelligibility. “I want to be a horse.”
“Cowgirls are girls who ride horses. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
“Anthony,” Simon says, standing up. His voice is low, and Anthony raises his eyebrow at him.
Amelia frowns as she continues sucking her thumb. “But papa, what will you be? If daddy’s the horsey, what about you?”
“Papa can also be a horse,” Simon says, “we can be one horse or two horses.”
Amelia’s nose wrinkles. “That’s not possible, daddy. How can two people be one horse? That’s silly.”
“And as the taller of us,” Anthony says in an aside to Simon, “you’d have to be the horse’s ass.”
“How about,” Amelia says, thumb coming out, her dimples coming out in full force, “a purple horse and an orange horse.”
“Those are your favorite colors,” Anthony says dryly. “But we can do that, and make you the cutest cowgirl that’s ever walked the earth.”
“Cowgirls don’t walk the earth,” Amelia says with a child’s arrogance, “but ride.”
For a girl who just found out that cowgirls exist, she says it with a lot of confidence.
“Of course,” Anthony says soothingly. She twists to see Simon, wriggling in Anthony’s arms. He loosens his grip so she can see him, and she grins up at him, toothy and with jam at the corner of her mouth. Simon licks his thumb and rubs at the jam. She leans into his touch, turning her cheek upwards, and the strawberry jam is gone in moments. Simon licks his thumb again, jam disappearing for good.
Anthony watches. He looks at Simon, and he thinks, and he sees, and those damn butterflies are omnipresent, always there, always appearing at odd moments. It has been a nigh constant since they reorbited due to Amelia, the daughter of Simon’s cousin who passed after giving birth. Amelia looks like Simon, too, in small ways; they have the same dimples, similar textured hair. Amelia’s eyes are expressive like Simon’s, but maybe it’s a similarity in behavior than appearance that makes Anthony’s heart pang. When they want to look at someone, their whole body turns, giving undivided focus; when they find something funny, the right side of their mouths lift first; they find comfort in clasped hands, fingers entwined, in sitting next to each other on the sofa.
Simon’s eyes move to Anthony’s, the soft smile that’s special, that’s just for his double Aces, appears. Anthony swallows.
Simon owns a sewing machine, while Anthony is best skilled with a thread and needle. They buy fabric from the store: purple, orange, a fake leather material for Amelia’s vest, some plaid. Anthony adds yarn to the basket, Amelia dancing down the aisles at Michael’s, picking up bits and pieces as she feels. At one point, she races back to Anthony with a packet of glitter, then googly eyes, gauze imitating spiders web, a pointed witchy hat that’s too large for her. She grins up at him, gap-toothed and baby-toothed, the brim still covering her eyes as she looks at him.
“Do you want that?” he asks her, picking it off her and putting it on himself.
“Oh,” Amelia says with a gasp. “Papa. You look so good with that. We have to get it.”
Anthony laughs and leaves the hat on. Amelia clambers onto the cart, feet on the bottom rung, and Anthony lifts her up and into the cart while she squeals. She settles amidst the fabric as they wheel through the aisles. Her curly head bobs as they wheel, her hands resting on either side.
“Didn’t daddy say this isn’t allowed?” Amelia asks a moment later, looking over her shoulder at Anthony.
“This is a special occasion,” Anthony says, shrugging it off. There’s nothing left to purchase; they’re only waiting for Simon to return with the various accouterments his fancy machine needs to sew the machines.
(The night they decided on horses, they tucked Amelia into bed, in her seascape room, Anthony pressing a kiss to her forehead, Simon reading her bedtime stories. When she is asleep, Simon backs out of the room, leaving the door open but an inch, and they reconvene in the kitchen. Anthony is sipping whiskey, and has a second glass poured for Simon.
“Horses?” Simon asks, taking his whiskey up and sipping it. “Really?”
“You agreed with her first.”
“I was angling for unicorn, but you went and fucked it up.”
Anthony snorts. He sips his whiskey, ice cube clinking in the low glass, square edges starting to melt into round curves. “Sure, that’s what you were doing.”
Simon rolls his eyes. “If we’re doing this, we need a plan.”
“Can’t we just buy costumes?”
Rolling his eyes aren’t enough this time, apparently; he closes his eyes, tosses back more of his whiskey than is surely comfortable. “Every year, you say that. Do you really think they sell orange and purple horse costumes anyway?”
Anthony’s hand pauses as he goes to take another sip. That’s a good point. “Fine, we’re making them. I do the patterns, you do the sewing?”
Simon snorts. “I still do a disproportionate amount of the work with that deal.”
“I refuse to learn how to use your sewing machine.”
Simon rolls his eyes, just one more time, and finishes his whiskey. “C’mere,” he says, edging closer to Anthony, down the kitchen counter. Their hips bump together, and Anthony’s eyes go heaven-ward, praying and damning. He puts his cup down as Simon’s hand moves to sit on his hip, and then Simon is in front of him, bending him down.)
“We need to get you a cowgirl hat too, don’t we,” Anthony says, looking at Amelia. “I’ll order that.”
“Daddy doesn’t like it when you order things,” Amelia says seriously. “He’s going to be upset.”
“Cowgirl hats for children aren’t easy to find. And what if we find the perfect hat with a purple feather?”
Amelia turns in the cart, lifting herself so she’s on her knees, facing Anthony. “No one told me that cowgirl hats can come with feathers.” Her eyes are big, shining, a luminous brown that matches Simon.
“It can come with feathers, polka dots, whatever you want.”
“What comes with feathers?”
Simon appears behind him, a hand briefly on Anthony’s hip as he slides around, thread and buttons and zippers dropped into the cart before he realizes Amelia’s in the cart. His gaze turns from their daughter to Anthony, a little baleful.
“Anthony,” is all Simon says, before Anthony’s sighing and goes to the other side.
“Upsies,” he says to Amelia, who pouts as she lifts her arms. Anthony grabs around her ribs, and Amelia takes the moment to cling to Anthony, a koala or monkey.
“Sweetie,” Simon says, “you almost got really hurt last time. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“But it’s fun,” Amelia says, digging her face into Anthony’s chest. Anthony’s hands move to support her, lifting her to rest more comfortable on his torso, her face tucking itself into his neck. “Daddy, are you against fun?”
“Amelia,” Anthony says, as Simon takes the cart in hand. “That’s not nice to say. Daddy likes to have fun, but he worries about you being safe and happy. I shouldn’t have put you in the cart.”
In a moment, Amelia wiggles out of Anthony’s arms, feet lightly landing on the linoleum floor, and she is skipping down the aisles again as they make their way to the check-out lane.
Anthony orders a children’s cowgirl hat online, adding a packet of purple and orange feathers to the order. He squirrels the package away before Simon finds it at home; there are a few uses to working-at-home, and one of them is definitely hiding his online shopping.
The patterns are made; fabric cut, layered and pinned together for Simon’s ease; Simon takes Amelia to Target and other stores in search of cowgirl boots that fit. Simon complains each and every night for the week it takes him to sew everything together, making small comments during dinner, disguised so Amelia doesn’t recognize them; he bitches after Amelia is in bed and he’s at the sewing machine in their spare room.
“I go into work and look at clothes and about making them, and I come home and look at clothes and actually make them. Where’s my division of professional and private?”
“Do you really want to wait the three weeks it would take me to sew them by hand?”
“You could just learn to use the Singer.”
Anthony snorts, tilting his head so the reading glasses slide down his nose enough to give Simon a particular look; the book flutters shut in his lap, his thumb keeping his page. “I have made it clear,” he says, “that I will not learn to use that machine.”
Simon rolls his eyes, then rolls his neck. Anthony grabs the bookmark and puts his book to the side, takes the glasses off and folds them, hanging them in the vee of his shirt. He stands behind Simon, hands resting lightly on shoulders. Anthony starts applying pressure as Simon tilts his head back, groaning low. Anthony’s hands move across his shoulders, thumbs pressing, until he is rubbing and indenting circles into the back of Simon’s neck.
“Fuck me,” Simon says on an exhale.
“Finish the costumes first,” Anthony says. He bends down to press a kiss to the corner of Simon’s eye and laughs as Simon groans again.
“Just wait until I’m done,” Simon says, sitting upright, back at work. “You’re going to be screaming my name.”
“I sure hope so.”
Halloween dawns rainy and late; the sun isn’t supposed to show until nearly eight in the morning, by which time Anthony and Simon have gone through an entire pot of coffee. Amelia was sick over the weekend, and is only mostly recovered Monday morning. She demands going to kindergarten in costume, but Anthony thinks she should stay home.
“She got the cold from school,” Simon tells Anthony over his second cup. Anthony is on his third.
“She should stay home until completely better.”
“It’s only a sniffle, and do you really think you can convince her to stay home? The first thing she did this morning was put her hat on.”
Simon smiles, and Anthony can’t resist his own; she came running down the stairs earlier, oversized Disney PJ shirt and leggings, holding her hat onto her head. She screamed, “ta-da!” as she reached the bottom, one hand still on the hat, the other out in a pose. She had sniffed right after, but her eyes were shining, and Anthony’s heart is breaking at the mere thought of telling her she can’t go to school.
“She had a fever on Friday.”
“That she was over Saturday morning.”
It is a standoff. They stand, opposite sides of the kitchen island, and Simon puts his mug down to cross his arms. They have matching ‘#1 Dad’ mugs, Simon’s on the counter, Anthony’s still in his hand.
“She was even better yesterday.”
“She still needs rest.”
“Anthony,” Simon says, sighing. One of his hands goes up to rub at his forehead, the other still around his chest. “Kids get sick and bounce back. You know this.”
“My mom always insisted they stay home.”
“And I know you didn’t always agree with her.”
Anthony puts his mug down. “This and that are different.”
“Anthony. Let her go. The teacher knows she was sick, and she knows to call if need be.”
“She needs more rest.”
“She was screaming ta-da. Would you like a reprise?”
“Daddy,” Amelia screams now, likely from the top of the stairs. “It’s cowgirl time!” Her screams are punctuated by her stomping.
“Your teeth are brushed right?” Simon calls back to her, moving across the kitchen, shooting Anthony a warning look as he exits.
Anthony sighs and sips his coffee. Simon seems to always win.
Mrs Hendrickson, a mouthful for the young children, doesn’t call them. Amelia comes home buzzed on candy from school, crashing not long after. She sprawls on the couch, knocked out, and Anthony lays a blanket over her. Simon won’t be home for over an hour, unless he leaves his work early, so it’s just Anthony and Amelia for now. He sits in the armchair near her, ditching the last hour of his work.
Well, it’s not so much ditching when you’re the owner of the company, so he doesn’t feel so bad. The other four employees who work for and with him understand; only one of them has children themselves, but the others have pets.
Amelia mumbles in her sleep, turning around, the blanket slipping off her. Anthony sighs; she can be a sensitive sleeper, so he doesn’t want to move her and risk waking her up. That desire for her well-being duels with his omni-present concern for her health. He knows she’s healthy. He knows that. But he remembers when Hyacinth was a toddler and had heart problems, in-and-out of the hospital, trying to figure out why her heart would stop for moments at a time.
Hyacinth is fine now. She’s a teenager, healthy as a horse, mean as a mule, sweet as a sheep. (A lamb, maybe, and only sometimes.) Anthony knows that she’s fine, that she doesn’t remember the long nights, crying while either their mom or Anthony walked and rocked her in their arms, the long drives to and from doctor appointments. It’s all in the past; it was something the doctors say she just had to grow out of.
But Anthony looks at Amelia, and he worries. He worries about every scrape on her knee. He worries about knots in her hair, about whether the other kids at school like her. They are not blood-related, but love isn’t preempted by consanguinity. He loves her. He loves her so much, this child. Every fiber of his being is not enough love for her.
He tugs the blanket on her, and then he carefully scoops her up. He carries her up the stairs and into the master bedroom, climbs onto the bed and curves around her as they both rest.
The door is quiet, but the understated whoosh as it swings open wakes Anthony. Amelia is still asleep in his arms, but starts waking up and wiggling as soon as Anthony moves, shifting to see Simon peeking in.
“Simon,” he mutters, groggy, sitting up. He rubs his eyes, heel of his hands pressed to cheekbone.
“It’s not yet five,” Simon says, shoulder leaning against the door frame. “We need to get ready soon.”
“Five?” Anthony echoes, taking one hand off to peer at his watch, dancing dark spots illuminating the face.
“We need to leave in twenty, and Amelia needs dinner.”
Anthony nods, and Amelia starts crawling up and over his lap, turning so her back is across his thighs.
“Is it cowgirl time?”
“Every day is cowgirl time,” he replies.
“I’ve got take-out,” Simon says, and then Amelia is rolling off his lap and lands onto the floor.
“Pizza?” she asks, popping right back up and hugging Simon’s legs. “Did you get us pizza daddy?”
“I did get you pizza,” he says, bending down and picking her up. She’s a little too big to carry around, but she loves being held and carried, demands it from every aunt and uncle she has. “Pepperoni.”
“Oh, good,” she says, and Simon carries her out the master bed and down to the kitchen, presumably. Anthony rakes a hand through his hair, rubs at his face one more time, then gets out of bed. His back creaks a little, a small twinge, and he twists his torso when his feet hit the ground. Is he getting old? His body aches more easily than it used to, and the curled position around Amelia certainly hadn’t been comfortable.
He takes the stairs down, and asks Simon, “why do we need to leave in twenty?”
Simon shoots him a look, putting pizza on a plate and passing it. “We’re trick-or-treating at your mom’s.”
“What—” he says, and is interrupted by Amelia.
“Are we going to grandmas?” The words are a little garbled, pizza visible in her open mouth. Anthony reaches across to tap the bottom of her chin.
“Mouth closed while we eat.”
“Yes, we are.”
“Why?”
Simon takes a bite of his pizza, and Anthony does the same.
“Her neighborhood has more kids Amelia’s age.”
He chews the dough, cheese, the bite of pepperoni, swallows. “Okay. Are we aiming for six?”
Simon nods, mouth full of pizza.
Anthony glances at Amelia, who is thankfully still in her cowgirl costume, which is only mussed. “It’s time to transform, then.”
Simon swallows. “You know where they are.”
At seven ere six, they arrive at Violet’s house. It’s the same house Anthony spent his teenage years at, and she has decorated it spooky as usual. There’s a giant skeleton presiding over the lawn in a lawn chair, with a straw hat glued to his skull from four years ago. Faux spider webs cover the front door, plastic bats tucked in. More of the spiderweb is attached to the front of the house, and there are several carved pumpkins lining the front pathway. There are already kids traipsing up and down the sidewalks with their parents, carrying orange treat buckets, and some with pillowcases instead.
“Auntie Hy did this one,” Amelia says, crouching next to a pumpkin with X’s for eyes and pumpkin guts spilling out its crooked mouth. Amelia sticks a finger into the guts and pushes them around for a second, and Anthony just barely catches her before she puts it in her mouth.
“You shouldn’t taste that,” he says, picking her up and setting her back down on her feet, away from the pumpkin. “It’s been out since last week.”
Anthony catches Simon’s murmur as they continue to the front door, “Auntie Hy did a surprisingly good job for an eight grader.”
“Auntie Hy is obsessed with horror movies and we should be grateful she didn’t do anything worse.”
“What could be worse?” Amelia pauses to ask, right at his feet, head tilted back to look up.
“Nothing,” Anthony says, patting her back to get her moving again.
Hyacinth swings the door open before they reach it, and bends over, laughing, moments later. Then his mom is at the door, smile widening when she sees the three of them.
“Let them in,” she says to Hyacinth, swatting at her youngest. Hyacinth moves over, crouching to continue laughing, and Simon and Anthony follow Amelia inside.
“Aren’t the three of you so cute,” Violet says, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Are these your fine steeds?” she asks Amelia.
“Yes!”
Fran comes from behind Violet, dressed as a cowgirl herself. Amelia brightens, so obviously that Anthony’s chest squeezes, and she runs towards Fran, launching herself at Fran’s legs.
“Aunt Fran!” she squeals. “We’re both cowgirls.”
“That’s right we are,” Fran says, crouching to give Amelia a big, tight hug. “Did you bring your lasso to get your rowdy steeds under control?”
“Lasso?” Amelia echoes.
“No lasso,” Anthony hurriedly says, “because we’re not rowdy.”
“Is everyone ready to go?” Simon asks.
Fran stands. “Hyacinth wants to stay home and scare the trick-or-treaters, so it’ll be me and Greg.”
“Where is he?”
Hyacinth has finished laughing, Anthony doesn’t know when, but the question sets off another spate of giggles.
“Gregory,” Violet says on a sigh, “lost a bet this year.”
“He’s going as Marilyn Monroe,” Hyacinth says.
Simon starts grinning, mouth moving to say something, but then Gregory comes around the corner. Hyacinth had chosen the costume idea to try and shame him, but Greg has a distinguished history of always besting a bad situation. He pulls the Marilyn look off with flair, in a surprisingly good blonde wig, complete with a copy of the iconic white halter dress with matching gloves. The dress looks modified to fit, to Anthony’s only slightly trained eye, and he shoots Simon a side-glance; Simon just keeps grinning at Gregory as he walks towards them. There’s bright red lipstick, and a black mark to represent Marilyn’s beauty mark. The only part amiss are the shoes—white sneakers—but Anthony bets it’s because Greg can’t walk in heels, and they’re about to walk around the neighborhood.
Fran wolf-whistles; Violet claps.
“How do I look?” Greg asks in an affected raspy drawl.
“That’s not how she spoke,” Simon says.
“I don’t care,” Greg responds, tossing his head, the curls bouncing.
“Uncle Greg,” Amelia says solemnly, “you look so pretty today.”
Greg breaks into a wide, toothy grin and bends to pick Amelia up, whirling in a circle with her, her legs kicking. “Thank you, little Miss Rodeo. You look fabulous yourself.”
Her forehead scrunches a little, but she wiggles free of Greg’s grasp, landing on the floor, and stands, legs wide, hands on her hips. “Of course I do!”
“She takes after you,” Fran comments dryly.
The doorbell rings, and the majority of the group moves further into the house as Hyacinth opens the door to greet the trick-or-treaters.
“Are you four all set?” Violet asks, keeping an eye on Hyacinth, who is demanding a joke from the little kids at the door.
“I think so,” Anthony says. “Simon?”
“We’re ready.”
“Oh,” Violet says, perking. “I need a picture! I can’t believe I nearly forgot!” She pulls her phone from her sweater pocket and waves for them to gather in the family room.
The first photo is relatively normal, but then Fran suggests putting Amelia on one of their shoulders, and Anthony is her first perch. And then, all too innocent, Fran suggests getting on their knees, like real horses. It starts dawning on him the moment Simon gets down on all fours, Amelia holding onto Anthony’s horse-hood, what Fran’s plan is.
“Anthony?” Simon asks.
“Fran,” Anthony says, reaching up to pull Amelia off him. She’s climbing onto Simon in a moment, delight and joy spread across her face, her little boots hanging in the air on either side of Simon. “I am your oldest sibling.”
“You are,” Fran says brightly. “How about you get on all fours to match your husband?”
“Fran,” he says once more, but Violet chimes in with agreement, as does Greg, who’s grinning just like Fran. “If I still had any control—”
“But you don’t,” she says, “and we have two horses and two cowgirls.”
“Auntie,” Amelia yells in joy as Anthony acquiesce, and Fran sits on his back. Violet is having the time of her life, as is Fran, Greg, and Amelia. Simon is laughing and grinning, head ducking every now and then, but he’s not playing horse with his nearly-grown younger sister.
The pictures come out like every other photo taken by a 60’s mom: okay lighting, some of the people blinking now and then, but there’s a palpable joy. Fran is grinning in all of them, wide and without abandon; Greg is doing Marilyn poses, clinking his knees together, hunching shoulders, blowing kisses, and Anthony and Simon seem tethered in the photos, like a photo cannot repress their connection and love, even costumed as two horses of orange and purple.
Amelia simply shines; at one point she nearly falls off Simon’s back, but Fran tilts off Anthony to catch her, and then Amelia is laughing, pulling on Fran’s arm, and Violet has a picture of them as a fallen mess, Anthony laughing, Simon dramatically proclaiming himself wounded, Amelia held tight in Fran’s arms—and Anthony is full of love. His chest is warm, heart tight, and he asks his mom to send all of them to him. Violet pats his shoulder, knowingly, because she knows instinctually, the way a loving mother does, what Anthony once believed he would have to sacrifice for his family.
“Go have fun,” she says, giving that shoulder a squeeze, and then pushes him out the door. Anthony hears Hyacinth chattering excitedly with Violet as the door closes behind them, retelling some of the jokes she heard. Amelia is grasping his hand tightly, small and warm, the handle of her orange bucket tight in her other. She’s almost ready to let go, peering around as they make a left turn, Fran and Greg some steps ahead of them. As they reach the first house and Amelia’s aunt and uncle turn, Greg holding a hand out for his niece, Amelia lets go of Anthony’s hand and runs to hold Greg’s.
The evening ends before two hours pass. Amelia is on Simon and then Anthony’s shoulders for the last forty minutes, feet tired, but still energetic. Her bucket is full, and everyone takes turns snacking on the contents. Fran grabs a Snickers as they reach an intersection.
“She’s asleep,” she comments, as she rips the wrapper.
“She even took a nap earlier,” Anthony says, sighing as Amelia’s head starts to slide, shifting his shoulders so she won’t slip.
“We’ll call it a night here,” Simon says, reaching across to rest a hand on Amelia’s back, eyes tender. “I’m sure you kids have more you want to do.”
Fran and Greg exchange looks. “I don’t,” Greg says first.
“I told John I’d let him know when we were done, and then we were going to watch a movie.”
“What, no parties?” Anthony asks, only half-joking.
“No, I think you gave mom enough gray hairs with yours.”
Simon laughs, and they make the left turn leading them back to Violet’s. Hyacinth has the door open before they hit the doorstep, immediately reaching for Greg’s bucket.
“Thanks!” she says before racing off, up the stairs to her room. Greg’s jaw drops and he starts running after her.
Violet appears from the hallway and yells up, “Gregory William, no shoes upstairs!” A few thuds float through the air, and Violet sighs. “There’s no winning with those two.”
Fran is pulling off her cowboy boots in moments. “I’ll go give him a what-for.” Violet barely has time to respond before Fran disappears upstairs, and she throws her hair up in a familiar gesture.
“They’re almost as bad as you were,” she says to Anthony.
“Hyacinth’s not even in high school yet. Once she’s there, I bet she’ll be more a terror than I was.”
Violet’s mouth quirks as she steps out with them, Amelia still asleep on Anthony’s shoulders. “She’s all tuckered out,” she whispers.
“She was sick over the weekend.”
Violet looks aghast. “But you let her trick-or-treat?”
Anthony rolls his eyes as he glances to Simon, whose mouth is pressed flat in suppression of a smile. “We even let her go to school.”
“Anthony,” Violet says reprovingly, “you should know better.”
Simon loses the battle and grins. “It was me.”
“Oh,” Violet says, pouting for a moment. She can never stay mad at Simon, never gets frustrated with him, or irritated; he is the first to marry into the Bridgerton, and Anthony remembers how she cried at their ceremony. “I suppose it’s fine, then, if Simon thought so.”
“Mom, Jesus,” Anthony says.
“Did you want to come in for wine?”
Anthony and Simon share a glance; he hitches his shoulders a little, and Amelia moves with him, nuzzling into his hair, one hand grabbing hold of his ear. “We’ll head home, actually,” Simon says, and steps forward to give Violet a half-hug and a cheek kiss, “but thanks for the invite.”
Violet smiles, soft, and takes Amelia’s hand to give it a kiss and then pats Anthony’s cheek. “Good to see you,” she says, still smiling that soft smile, and Anthony smiles back, that same softness in his, that same sense of helplessness in face of enormous love.
Amelia barely wakes up as they buckle her into her car seat. She murmurs a drowsy, “papa?” as Anthony does the final buckle, but remains half-asleep during the drive home. Simon carries her inside as Anthony turns the lights on, dimming them; he carries her up the stairs, and Anthony knows he’s starting the process of getting her out of costume and into pajamas with Amelia following along, a yawning doll. Anthony goes to the kitchen himself, rolling up the sleeves of his horse costume, folding the hoof appliques Simon sewed on. The pizza box is still on the counter, a few slices left. He bags it, puts it in the fridge; the box he flattens and puts in the garbage bin kept in their cold garage. He wipes down the counters, lights dim, streetlights guiding him nearly as much. When the kitchen is tidy, dishes in the dishwasher and counters immaculate, he moves to tidy his work space. Thirty or so minutes later, Simon comes downstairs, changed out of his horse costume, making Anthony feel silly in his.
“She’s asleep,” Simon says, hugging Anthony from behind, forehead pressing against the back of Anthony’s head.
“Good,” he says, tucking his office chair in, resting his hands on top of Simon’s, resting on his abdomen. They stand like that for long moments; Simon’s breath ghosts down the back of Anthony’s head, hitting his nape, stopping at the collar of the costume. Their hands tangle together, and Anthony rubs his thumb along the back of Simon’s. Simon shuffles a little closer, bodies pressed tightly against each other, moving his head to tilt against his, ear-to-ear.
“It was a good night,” Anthony murmurs.
“It was,” Simon says on a whisper of a breath.
The moment continues, stretching, precious, a small moment just for them. Amelia sleeps upstairs, in her room with a mural by Benedict. There is a lunch prepared for both Simon and Amelia in the fridge for tomorrow; Simon will take her to school, and Anthony will pick her up. Simon is on dinner duty tomorrow, and Anthony already knows he’s planning on tacos, one of Amelia’s favorites. Taco Tuesday, he can already hear Simon say, and Anthony already knows he’ll roll his eyes, but help prepare a corn salsa. Amelia will chatter about her classmates and her teacher, maybe about how she wants to start taking the bus. It will be a Tuesday like last week, and it will be a Tuesday like two weeks from now. It is inconsequential; it is everything. It is quiet peace, tender love, a refuge for both Anthony and Simon.
And right now, in this moment, Anthony pats Simon’s hand and says, “let’s go to bed.”
Simon sighs, nods his head, skin brushing each other; Anthony turns and holds Simon’s face in his to kiss. It is a slow, meaningful kiss; their mouths move against each other, Simon’s hands on Anthony’s waist. They break apart, and Anthony runs a thumb along his cheekbone, stubble rough on his fingertips and palm, the scratch still on his face.
Simon yawns, and they go upstairs. Anthony changes into his pjs, and Simon is already in bed, reading glasses on his nose, book in hand. Anthony joins him, and twenty minutes later the lights turn off, and they fall asleep.