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Cigarette smoke expels in a cloud of foggy white through Harry’s parted lips, in a heavy exhale that deflates his shoulders and lolls him forward; all tension draws out of him in one release of breath. The bittersweet aroma of burnt paper and cheap coffee drowns out his senses and clings to his clothes — the off-white button-up and ebony slacks of his work uniform, remnants of a shift ended hours ago — mingling pleasantly with the scent of Joe’s cologne; laced with notes of musk, sandalwood and vanilla. Harry caught whiff of it dabbed sparingly onto the wrist when Joe lifted a hand to light Harry’s cigarette; but now he takes full advantage of its intended allure as he leans into the crevice between neck and shoulder in the fleeting daze of his nicotine high. The roll between his fingers burns away in flakes of ash, wasting away the longer it goes untouched, and Joe reaches down to gently coax it from his hand; smoke settles over the both of them in a calming haze when he respires.
Across the bed upon which they both sit — a disarray of bedsheets and two extra blankets, now that winter leaves the cheap apartment falling colder than Joe finds tolerable — sits a record player with a perspex lid positioned over the end table. The vinyl spins underneath a needle over the support of mahogany wood, fronted by a metallic panel home to its auditory controls; the volume knob is tilted far left so the music serves as only a faint hum in the background of their deep, polluted breaths. Joe’s arm rises to wrap around the curve of Harry’s back as they lean into one another, locking him in a tender embrace, and rocks them gently to the smooth rhythm of Aretha Franklin.
Joe’s apartment is small and cramped, befitting of its affordable cost, furnished with only the necessities to keep him comfortable. The rusty brown of the carpet pairs dully with the flocked wallpaper, harvest gold and artichoke green and blemished with inconsistent stains across its expanse. The couch, chevron and sandy, cradles the few splashes of color in the room against both of its armrests; in two brightly-colored pillows of orange and red that clash unseemingly against their surroundings. The modest kitchenette is paneled with wood, and in the basin of the sink rests their soiled dishes lazily left incomplete, from their half-hearted attempt at a dinner above the standards of greasy pizza. The entire flat is embarrassingly humble, and yet Joe consistently assures it’s all he needs; though the deeper truth of financial and familial troubles remains unspoken between the both of them.
None of it matters — or so Joe asserts — when his plans extend far beyond the dead-end existence of a minimum-wage job in suburban Utah. Freddy Fazbender’s is only the kickstart, the year or two of experience needed to get both of them on their feet, when the job market blocks its doors to two young veterans of an unpopular war with nothing to offer but a hobbled leg and a brash temperament. The pay is rock-bottom and the expectations are higher than the conditions, but both Harry and Joe are hard workers in their own right; each drag of a shift is manageable with the promise of an easier future.
“On the coast,” Joe muses, as he taps ashes from the tip of the cigarette into a small bowl — their makeshift ashtray — placed over the flat of the windowsill. The window is cracked to vent the smoke, but lets in occasional drifts of crisp air that encourages them to draw each other closer for warmth. “Wouldn’t that be something? A nice view looking over the ocean, the misty breeze; none of our dry fucking summers.” Joe hovers his hand in the line of Harry’s sight, who takes back the offered cigarette and lifts it to his lips. “Just imagine the view. Every damn night. The sunset, right over the shoreline…”
There’s a brief pause of silence as Harry expels another cloud. Joe takes the roll carefully between thumb and forefinger now that it’s used down to the filter, and snuffs it out into the bowl amongst the ashen residue of burnt tobacco. “We’ve got good sunsets,” Harry defends, as he tilts back his head to lock gazes with Joe; both of their breaths reek of smoke as they exhale against each other’s skin, yet neither of them seem to mind as they lean only centimeters from connecting their lips. “We could go out to watch it sometime. Out in the mountains, they’re beautiful.”
“You’re beautiful,” Joe replies.
Taken aback by the compliment, Harry can only stare at him as his mouth slips slightly agape at an unexpected loss for words. Joe reaches up a hand to gently brush his fingers through Harry’s bangs — honey brown and fresh with the scent of citrus shampoo — as his other slips down the side of Harry’s torso, grazing over each ridge of rib with his fingertips before he settles at the waist. He secures his hold to keep Harry in place, positioned closely to him, every detail of Harry’s face in the perfect view for Joe to lovingly admire; the swirled blend of coffee and caramel within both eyes, flecked with cream, as enticing as two sweet candies.
“Harry,” Joe continues, as the hand within Harry’s locks trails down to tenderly cup over the flesh of his cheek. The skin is warm to the touch, flushed a light pink with the sudden onset of shyness, and Harry leans into the cool contact of Joe’s palm. “I promise you I’ll take us out of here someday.” His fingers squeeze gently into Harry’s waist, just as the lyrics of the vinyl record sing aloud the thoughts he’s not romantic enough to admit: Sometimes, I look at you, baby, and wonder if God sent you here. “We’ll get a nice home — the beach, the mountains, out East; anywhere else but this town — somewhere it can just be the two of us. This job is just more bullshit for us to get through, but it’s temporary. Only the beginning.”
Harry lifts both arms to hang over Joe’s shoulders; the perfect placements of both their hands for a slow dance, which Joe takes advantage of as he rocks them from side to side. “I’d be happy anywhere,” Harry assures him. “Even if we stayed here for the rest of our lives. As long as we’re together.”
“Of course you’d be fine staying here,” Joe teases, but his voice holds no venom even with the accusation. His thumb strokes over the soft skin of Harry’s cheek as he speaks, refusing to direct the admiration in his eyes anywhere but at Harry. “You’ve always been a homebody. Remember how the guys used to tease you in boot? You received more letters from Mommy than anyone else.”
“Don’t bring that up,” Harry groans, and Joe laughs softly; warm-heartedly. “Come on, it’s not funny.” He gives Joe’s shoulder a light shove when the laughter only grows, and Joe exaggerates its strength as he falls to the bed, pulling Harry down with him. Joe’s arms sweep around Harry’s neck and Harry stumbles with the unexpected tug, though he’s able to catch his fall with a hand on either side of Joe’s torso — and then, finally, does Joe’s goading fade to only a smile. Harry holds himself upright with their faces positioned just inches away from one another, Joe staring sweetly up at him from below.
Only in their new positioning does Harry become acutely aware of the heat across his cheeks; a subtle pink from the tips of his ears to the bridge of his nose. He can faintly hear Joe’s heartbeat as it pounds more intensely underneath him, and feels the rise and fall of his abdomen as he breathes against Harry’s. The moment burns with intimacy, even more so than when they sat halfway in each other’s laps, sharing indirect kisses from the filter of their cigarette; and in their positioning, Joe looks so uncharacteristically vulnerable Harry feels as though he may melt from the beauty of him.
“Wanna do it?” Joe whispers, only half-joking.
Harry’s lips slip agape at the unexpected question, eyes widening, and Joe takes the first opportunity to strike; with another laugh he shoves against Harry’s shoulders and forcibly maneuvers them into opposite positions. Harry offers no struggle aside from his initial flails of confusion, until his head hits the pillows and Joe leans down to kiss him — then, does Harry lift a hand to press against Joe’s mouth and stop him from connecting their lips.
“I shouldn’t stay,” Harry answers softly. “It’s already so late.”
He drops his arm, but Joe makes no movement to reattempt what he so desperately wants; Harry as a puddle from the warmth of his kisses, a mess from his touch alone. The normally so proper, uptight, hardworking little Harry relaxed and undone underneath him. “Not even for a little while longer?” Joe insists, though he knows it’s a losing battle. “You wouldn’t have to stay the night. And,” he leans forward, and pecks Harry’s cheek with no resistance, “I’d take you home, make sure you got there safe.”
“How gentlemanly of you,” Harry quips. He smiles apologetically when he pushes himself up to sit, Joe leaning back to accommodate, and swings his legs over the side of the bed as he prepares to stand. “No, I should really go. You know how my mother gets when I’m not home by the time she expects me.”
“Right,” Joe acknowledges, trying not to sound too disappointed. He can’t help the twinge of irritation at Harry’s reasoning, despite how it’s none of his business; it must just be jealousy, he figures, for lacking the same attachment Harry shares with his own family. He knows it’s wrong to want Harry’s attention all for himself, or to prioritize his own desires over the needs of Harry’s relatives; and yet he can’t help but feel as though Harry rarely considers his own wants, and it holds him back from the full potential of their relationship. They could be far away from here by now, Joe thinks, if they hadn’t returned to Hurricane after their military service. “When her adult son isn’t back by curfew.”
“It’s not like that,” Harry dismisses. On his feet, he brushes out the wrinkles in his work uniform and straightens his tie — untidied from the minor roughhousing — attempting to make himself appear presentable enough to reenter the public sphere. “She’s prone to worrying,” he explains, “and I owe it to her for being away for so long. I’m her only son. It’s my job to take care of her.”
“You should let someone else take care of you, for once,” Joe replies.
Silence falls between them for a moment, as Harry finishes adjusting his clothing, before he turns to his lover and rests a palm on each of Joe’s shoulders to smile down at him reassuringly. The expression seems slightly forced, and for a split second, Joe regrets his comment; though it’s correct and both of them know it.
“Hey,” Harry whispers, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He leans down and their lips lock in a kiss, short and soft and sweet. Harry pulls away far too soon, but Joe resists the urge to coax him down for a longer goodbye. He lets Harry go, feeling as though a part of him is leaving alongside him, as if a slice of his heart is kept in the palm of Harry’s hand and he needs the man’s touch to feel whole.
“I’ll see you then,” Joe agrees, and Harry leaves him for the exit. He tries not to dwell on the sudden feeling of loneliness when the front door closes, knowing that it’s only one night; a gateway to the morning on which they’ll see each other again. Joe closes his eyes and imagines Harry’s face, in all its handsome intricacies Joe has dedicated lovingly to memory, and hopes he never forgets it until the day he dies.