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Leon smoothed a hand across the sheets next to him. They were incredibly soft. Luxurious. Some kind of blend, maybe cotton and silk – he didn’t know much about bed linens, but he could tell they were expensive. The sheets next to him were empty, long since gone cold, but Leon could hear movement in the house beyond the bedroom. The bed was a warm cocoon he wasn’t quite ready to emerge from, however, and so he used the opportunity of being in Wesker’s space unsupervised to take in the bedroom in more detail, hoping he could glean any small details about the otherwise elusive man.
It wasn’t very often that Leon and Wesker spent the night together, usually having quick fucks and parting ways. Leon could count on one hand the number of times he and Wesker lingered long enough after sex for it to be notable. It was even less often that these encounters took place at either of their homes; but for one reason or another, the previous evening found Leon walking up the path to Wesker’s front door, and this morning waking up in his bed.
As Leon’s eyes moved around the room, he was surprised by the presence of so many natural materials, warm in a way that he didn’t associate with Wesker. The man’s cool rigidity made Leon associate him more with stone and steel.
On either side of the bed was a low wooden table with a short lamp in a charcoal grey ceramic, offset by a linen coloured lampshade. The tables had a single drawer with open shelving beneath. Leon already knew what the drawer on Wesker’s side of the bed held, having experienced it the night before. A brief look in the drawer on Leon’s side showed it to be empty. The shelf beneath was stacked with a selection of magazines and journals and some loose papers that looked to be some kind of report. While Leon was curious and unobserved, he wasn’t interested in snooping.
Opposite the foot of the bed was a narrow wooden rack for hanging trousers. He recognized his own pants neatly folded and hung, recused from where they had been carelessly discarded on the floor the previous evening.
There was a chest of drawers – also wood – the top clear of items. Whatever toiletries Wesker used when dressing must be kept exclusively in the bathroom, or stored somewhere else, Leon wasn’t sure.
What was most curious to Leon was the absence of any art on the walls. He knew that art was a design feature that could reveal a lot about a person, but he wasn’t sure what to make of the bare blue-grey walls. He thought about the art in Wesker’s office at the Racoon City Police Department, the generic paintings of flowers, and that one portrait of Whistler’s Mother – no, not that exact painting, but something similar, more generic. They felt like things placed there to fill space, and weren’t chosen by Wesker himself for the purposes of making his office feel like his own.
All things considered, the cool tone of the walls and the natural elements in the room did make Leon feel relaxed and at ease – like drifting on a calm lake beneath of a storm grey sky – so he supposed the design choices Wesker had chosen served the purpose of the room they were for.
After spending some minutes considering the bedroom, Leon was pushed from the bed by the needs of his body, and he slipped from beneath the warm covers, shivering in the cool air of the room, and crossing to the adjoining bathroom.
In contrast to the bedroom, the bathroom was all glass and chrome. It was clean and gleaming, neatly organized, as though it had never been used. Two plush towels hung from the towel bar, a blue-grey to match the colour of the walls in the bedroom. A bath mat was neatly hung along the glass doors of the shower. The counter of the vanity was free of clutter.
The orderly state of the room made Leon feel nervous about using the facilities while simultaneously wanting to dirty it up, to poke around and move things ever so slightly out of place to annoy Wesker. Ultimately, he tended to himself and left the room in its original state.
Returning to the bedroom, he slipped on his trousers and shirt before heading downstairs. He could smell coffee, hear the quiet rustle of paper as pages turned. His feet were quiet against the wood floor as he followed the sound and aroma to the kitchen where Wesker sat at the table, newspaper open before him, a mug of steaming coffee at his elbow.
Leon stopped short at the sight of him.
Unused to seeing the man so informal and relaxed, it was the state of him that Leon was having difficulty grappling with. He was dressed, but the tails of his shirt were untucked, the collar open to reveal the hollow of his throat and the lines of his collarbones. A waistcoat had been adorned, but also hung open and loose around his torso. The cherry on top was the way Wesker’s hair fell loose across his forehead, not yet set in place. To see this man, usually so put together, in this intentional, slightly dishevelled, unfinished state of dress, made Leon dizzy. He felt his mouth go dry at the sight, tempted to drag the man back upstairs (although he wouldn’t object to the kitchen), to resume the previous evening’s activities.
After a moment, Wesker turned his attention to Leon, taking in his equally incomplete, though far more par for the course, state of dress. He nodded his head toward the counter where a mug sat next to a French press. “There’s coffee,” he said simply, as though Leon being in his kitchen in the morning was a normal occurrence.
The kitchen, like the other areas of the house Leon had seen, was neat and orderly. Functional. A galley kitchen, it had a breakfast nook which opened onto the front hallway, occupied by a rectangular wooden table. A window behind the table bathed the kitchen in early morning sun. The counters, some type of stone that Leon didn’t recognize, were uncluttered. The appliances were nice, but not high end. Leon wondered if these were the appliances that came with the house or if Wesker had picked them out himself. He wondered why it mattered. He wondered why he cared.
Suddenly desperate to extend this surreal experience, Leon crossed the kitchen and filled the waiting mug. “Do you have anything stronger I can add to this?” Leon asked, half-joking with the request, and Wesker raised an eyebrow behind the dark glasses that already adorned his face.
“Isn’t it a bit early for that?” There was clear judgment in Wesker’s tone, but Leon elected to ignore it.
“I’ll settle for milk, if you have it.”
Wesker pointed to the refrigerator.
Leon wondered if he was dreaming. Being here in Wesker’s house, exploring the rooms in which Wesker lived, drinking coffee together in his kitchen, looking into his refrigerator , as though the contents of that one appliance didn’t reveal so much about a person. It belied a familiarity that made Leon’s stomach clench uneasily.
As he stood with the refrigerator door open, he was struck suddenly by the mental picture of Chris here, in Wesker’s kitchen, poking through his refrigerator, drinking coffee like he belonged there. The idea caused an unexpected twist of jealousy that Leon furiously tamped down. Whatever this was between him and Wesker was casual. Less than casual. So inconsequential it was scarcely worth putting a label on it. Whatever Wesker did when Leon wasn’t around wasn’t his business or concern.
And yet.
Leon added a glug of milk to his mug before returning the carton to the refrigerator. He sat in the seat opposite of Wesker, the two men sitting in what might be a comfortable silence until Wesker sighed and set the paper down. “What’s on your mind, Leon?”
“Huh?” Leon replied.
“You appear lost in thought. What seems to be occupying your mind?”
Leon rubbed a hand across his mouth, eyes skating around the room before settling back on Wesker who sat patiently awaiting Leon’s response. “Just feels weird. Being in your house. Seeing you so–” Leon waved his hand vaguely at Wesker who simply raised an eyebrow in response.
“You’re welcome to leave whenever you’d like.”
Leon sighed. “It’s not that I don’t want to be here,” the admission made Leon’s stomach flip, “it’s just…strange.” A strained moment of silence hung between them. “I never expected you to live in a house,” Leon added eventually, and the statement startled a sharp laugh from Wesker.
“What did you imagine me living in?”
Leon shrugged a shoulder, embarrassed. “I don’t know. Some sleek penthouse condo or something. Nevermind. Forget I mentioned it.”
“I will do exactly that, then,” Wesker replied. He stood smoothly from his chair, taking his coffee cup, and rinsing it in the sink before placing it in the dishwasher. “Not to rush you, but I do need to leave shortly.” He paused at the table to fold the newspaper back together, depositing it into the recycling bin by the door before heading back up stairs, leaving Leon alone and unsupervised once more.
Leon lingered in the kitchen, finishing the last of his coffee. When Wesker returned he was his pristine, orderly self; shirt tucked in and buttoned, waist coat closed and fitted against his body, hair neatly slicked back. A gun holster (empty) was a new addition to the ensemble, the leather emphasizing the broadness of Wesker’s shoulders.
Immediately Leon missed the informal, relaxed, somewhat dishevelled look of the man before him, knowing it was a sight he likely would never have the opportunity to see again.
“Time to go,” Wesker said, and Leon stood, mug forgotten on the table as he collected his things and slipped out the front door.
Walking down the path to his car, he glanced by at the house, taking it in one last time.
The curtains, he realized, were blue.