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Edgar doesn’t know if he’ll ever get used to the feeling of aching muscles. It’s been a constant part of his life for as long as he can remember, and since he’s been dancing for about ten years, ever since he was a little kid, it would be fair to assume that he’d become accustomed to the pain. But no, even all these years later, he still finds himself straining to walk up a driveway after a few hours of practicing for his upcoming concert.
But even though every step forward feels like he’s walking on fire, Edgar can’t bring himself to pay any mind, his thoughts elsewhere as he approaches the front door. It’s not his house, although considering the amount of time he spends here it might as well be. Even though he has a key, he knocks anyway, more as a formality than anything else.
The door is opened by Curtis’ mother, a woman with smile wrinkles around her eyes and hair that is just starting to turn grey. She immediately gives Edgar a knowing smile.
“Hi Edgar,” she greets, already stepping back and opening the door further. “Come on in.” She knew he was coming, it’s become somewhat of a routine by now. Every day he’d come here and spend the afternoon with Curtis, staying the night more often than not. He’s left enough of his clothes in Curtis’ room that he could easily just move in if he really wanted.
Edgar returns her smile and steps into the house, instantly greeted by the aroma of baked goods coming from the kitchen. He wonders what it will be today. Apple pie? Triple chocolate brownies? Gingerbread cookies?
“Would you like some vanilla muffins?” Curtis’ mother offers before Edgar can ask, and he doesn’t even have to consider before he says yes. He swears he’s going to get fat with all the food she gives him, but at the end of the day he can’t really bring himself to care. Besides, Curtis always teases him for being for being a twig, so he supposes it’s not really a concern.
“Curtis will be home in a few minutes,” Curtis’ mother says conversationally as she picks out the best muffin from the bunch. Edgar knows this, Curtis gets home at the same time every day, as is the routine.
He smiles as he takes the muffin. “Thanks,” he says. “I’ll just wait upstairs, then.” And he goes up the stairs just like he’s done a million times before, in a house so familiar to him it might as well be his own.
Curtis’ bedroom is simple, like any teenage boy’s room. There’s some posters hastily stuck up on the wall, a double bed with the sheets unmade, and a pile of dirty laundry in the corner just to tie it all together. Edgar can’t count the amount of times he’s told Curtis to clean his room, threatening not to kiss him until he does, and that usually works as a negotiation tactic, but the room still ends up messy again anyways.
Edgar flops onto Curtis’ bed immediately, getting comfortable as he finishes eating the muffin. Kicking off his shoes, he lies back in a familiar position, wishing for the heat of a particular body next to his. He glances over at the bedside table, smiling at the picture frame proudly displayed there. It’s a photo of Curtis and Edgar, caught mid-laugh as they celebrate Curtis’ football team winning the end of year game. One of the reasons Edgar loves the picture is the fact that anyone who comes into Curtis’ room will see it, will see them together, hands all over each other in celebration, and they’ll know.
Edgar doesn’t move when the bedroom door opens a few minutes later, he expected it after all, and he only looks up when a shadow looms over him. There stands Curtis, still a little sweaty from his football practice, hair disheveled but still handsome as ever. He raises an eyebrow, acting surprised.
“What are you doing on my bed?” he asks, smiling a little.
Edgar rolls his eyes. “Getting crumbs all over it, clearly,” he replies, and revels in Curtis’ laugh. He watches as Curtis shamelessly pulls his jersey over his head, stripping down to his boxers and stretching his arms above his head.
He catches Edgar staring. “Enjoying the view?” he teases, and Edgar sticks his tongue out at him, but he doesn’t complain when Curtis flexes his muscles for a bit of a show. His hair is even more fucked up now, but Curtis doesn’t seem to care as he chucks the clothes to the corner and collapses on the bed.
He lies facing Edgar, a familiar position, and they stay sprawled in a comfortable silence for a little while before Edgar speaks up. “How was practice?” he asks, and Curtis sighs.
“The usual, I guess,” he replies, reaching up to run his fingers through his hair. “A lot of running and jumping and tackling, y’know. My legs are killing me, but I’ll live. What about you?”
Edgar purses his lips. “It was fine. This girl in the other class was being a bitch to me because I’m a guy doing ballet, you know, her small brain can’t comprehend it, I guess. But it’s fine, I told her to fuck off, I’m fine.” He tries to be reassuring as he catches the flash of protectiveness in Curtis’ eyes as he frowns.
“Well, forget about her. She doesn’t know anything about you,” he says sternly, and then he shifts forward and pulls Edgar against his chest, kissing the top of his head. Edgar smiles against his boyfriend’s skin. He knew this would happen. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever get used to the idea that someone cares so much about him, enough to get upset at just the mention of someone being less than nice to him. They’ve been dating for so long now but Edgar still gets butterflies every time Curtis stands up for him.
“Don’t you have homework to do?” he mumbles against Curtis’ collarbone, even as he wraps his arms around him and holds him tight.
Curtis breathes deeply into his hair. “It can wait,” he murmurs, letting out a yawn. And as he runs his hand up and down Curtis’ bare back, Edgar decides that the whole damn world can wait, and this is all that matters.