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James had left this morning talking of a promise, a celebration, ears flushed with anticipation. His eyes held a certain humour as he captured Mungo's cheeks in his callused hands and offered him a soft kiss before he left for work in the wake of the day. Freshly roused from the clutches of sleep, Mungo bound his finger in the locks of hair at the nape of James' neck, mind addled, his words a slew of noise. Some talk of their place — their place — and a celebration.
"Whut?" Was all he could offer this side of noon.
This didn't deter James; rather, his grin pulled to the tips of his ears. "Aw, ye'll see."
Mungo carried this through the hours of rounds; his words, though vague, buoyed on the waves of mundanity. Jodie would tell him the paper round was a modest job and would get them by just fine. Just fine would keep the both of them afloat, that was fair enough, but it didn't offer much else; the papers were as dull as the job itself, words that swam together with headlines of gloom. Sometimes they would bring the clouds themselves to tears, fat drops running down the back of his neck like a chill and making an incorrigible soup of the day's stories.
Today, Mungo dragged himself from house to house, crammed together in a perfect row of shining teeth, with James' so-called celebration, whatever it may be. Each paper, folded in thirds and pushed through doors like waggling tongues, eased the weight of his satchel and brought him closer to home. Some rituals fundamentally don't change; he had been kicking his legs at the back of the classroom and watching the clock's hands fight for each minute gone by. Now he measured his time in letterboxes.
At home, Mungo buried himself in the settee with one of many episodes of Coronation Street a murmur from the TV. It mimicked a conversation, something he missed in these moments alone.
It hadn't taken long for him to think of their place as home, though it was hardly a domestic flat. The lights that hung overhead cast a pallid yellow over the rooms with their glare and made the carpet cower in fear. It was in a threadbare state of affairs, and reminded him much of the old men with caps pulled over their heads, though the patches of age would show on the back of their necks nonetheless, more nose hair than head. The walls were lined with thin cracks, urban vines. Mungo worried one of them with the edge of his nail in restlessness though he knew they would spread like ivy if he did so. Any furniture that was a comfort was scrounged from charity shops, soft with use and dulled in shine. The two of them had no bed to speak of but a bare mattress, sheets unmade and draped carelessly like a waiting lover.
The only waiting lover was Mungo, who basked in the flickering lights that mocked a summer's day. Yes, it wasn't homely, but when Jodie had chastised him for wishing to go home when curled up in the airing cupboard, this must've been what he was aching for. It was home, in a sense, when James made it so.
A click at the door, and Mungo perked up like a prowling cat.
James sported that same grin he'd left with, the one that was near infectious; Mungo's lips pulled at a smile in kind. Wool bunnet shoved over his sandy curls, it served only to accentuate his red ears that Mungo would tweak if he were feeling brash; in his arms, a white box that sagged in the centre, wrapped in a crimson ribbon with a bow planted on top like a kiss. It did little to suggest the contents.
Mungo's curiosity was certainly piqued; he pulled himself from the sofa cushions and ambled over. James dropped the box on the table in favour of offering his arms out. Pressing his face into the crook of his neck, Mungo wrapped himself in the hug, bones sagging in his grip. He could very well melt into the woven cotton of his shirt.
"Awright?" James asked.
When Mungo tried to offer a response he found himself mumbling against skin, so he settled for a nod. Lips flush against his neck, he breathed in the day; sawdust that peppered him like glitter, the bitter musk of teenage body spray, sleep that he hadn't quite managed to shake off.
James pulled away all too soon, tugging at the ribbon in invitation. "Go on. Open it."
And now Mungo finally got to satiate the interest gnawing at his stomach; in one light tug, the bow collapsed, giving way to thin cardboard. He pulled the top off with ease and peered inside.
A cake, slathered in a thick layer of lavish buttercream; the colour deep and inviting, it looked to be as rich as fudge and drawn in tight swirls on the surface. Chocolate flakes were dusted, in no small amount, atop the icing. It was a cake for a special occasion, made with care and precision at the hands of someone who boasted years of practice under their belt.
"Lemon fudge," He declared with great importance.
Mungo sent James a look, chuffed as if he'd baked it himself. "How much did it cost ye? Arm and a leg?"
"Naw, I went down Nevis Bakery. She's soft on me there 'cause I helped wi' her doo problem last week. Knocked half off for us." He shrugged. "'Asides, I said we're celebrating our own place. Ah'm not gunna get any old shite."
"It looks like pure sugar." He meant this as no insult.
"Aye. That's the best part."
Mungo took the nape of James' neck in the crook of his palms and pressed their lips together. He held him like a prayer; when they kissed it was on old comfort, weary and clumsy and tender like a yellowing bruise.
They forwent the forks; box on the floor between them and heads lolling against the cushions of their settee, the two of them dug into the soft cake with careless hands. The yellow sponge bled ganache from the inside out, muddying their nails and slicking their fingers in sticky sweetness. It cloyed their throats with the near-sickening sugar but that tang of citrus cut through the headache, leaving them full and fatigued like hibernating bears.
Mungo reached for James, half-blind in the drowsy light of the sunset that crawled across their outstretched legs, and pulled him against his side. There he lay, warm; he fit there like a puzzle piece, ribs slotting together and cushioned by soft skin. Mungo dragged a lazy finger in his fair hair and felt him lean into his touch with a sigh.
"Here's to us, eh?" James murmured.
Mungo nodded. "Here's to us."