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Chuck had told him he loved him two days ago.
And Taylor had told him that he loved him back.
That was all Taylor thought about. All that repeated in his mind.
The scene replayed in his head so many times. Yet, he sometimes doubted if it ever even happened. Had he been drunk? Dreaming? But really, he knew he wasn’t going crazy. He knew what Chuck had said. He knew what HE had said.
His days at the Hot Doggeria seemed to be going by faster now. He kept fucking up, too. Peggy was always on his ass about being late with orders, burning hot dogs, forgetting drinks and popcorn. “Get your head outta your ass! Look at the clock, will you?” She told him after he’d completely screwed up Mindy’s order. “Watch the time, double-check the tickets.”
Time seemed to be racing ahead of him, however, with his mind occupied with his roommate. Chuck, Chuck, Chuck.
He seriously, seriously doubted that Chuck was in his right mind. He was drunk, after all. Completely pissed, wasted. But his voice had been so soft. So, so sweet. He was red, redder than Taylor had ever seen him. He’d looked so good in that dim light, eyelashes long and low, those freckles scattered like stars across his face—
‘But he’d been drunk’, is what Taylor kept telling himself, each time his mind wandered. ‘And go check on those damn hotdogs.’ There was no use in fantasizing about something that would obviously never happen again.
Chuck, however, had no idea how much Taylor was thinking about him. If he did, he’d probably be overjoyed. Because man, was his mind occupied with Taylor.
He knew exactly what had happened that night. He’d been drunk, he wouldn’t deny that, but he wasn’t out of his head.
He’d told Taylor that he’d loved him. And he’d told him the truth.
Sure, maybe he wouldn’t have said it if he hadn’t had four beers. He probably would have kept it to himself, as he had been doing the past, what, two months?
But he felt a little sorry that he’d said it. Taylor hadn’t responded to his profession. Maybe he’d scared the other man, overwhelmed him. Maybe Taylor was building up the courage to tell him that he was a filthy faggot and that he needed to move out as soon as possible.
Nah, Taylor wouldn’t tell him that.
Would he?
Pushing his fears to the side, however, Chuck kept his usual cool demeanor. Maybe Taylor would forget about it if he didn’t feel the same way. Maybe he’d never mention it again, and Chuck would pretend like he didn’t want him.
But damn, Chuck did want him. He wanted Taylor to tell him that he’d dreamed about Chuck just as much as Chuck dreamed about him. He wanted Taylor to tell him that he loved him, too. But that night, he fell asleep before he could get a response out of him.
Hell, maybe Taylor had come up with a response, but Chuck was asleep, so he didn’t hear it. Taylor wouldn’t leave him hanging.
…would he?
So, as Chuck was closing down the Wingeria, he decided he’d tell Taylor he loved him. Or, at least tell him something about how he felt. Completely sober this time. To make sure that he knew it really happened.
So he took the subway home, as usual. Excited and nervous, fingers fidgeting with the white shell necklace he wore around his neck. And when he got to their shared apartment, and opened the door with his key, he hoped he didn’t look as nervous as he felt.
Taylor was there already, relaxed over the couch and mindlessly watching TV. Chuck nodded to him and went to take a shower, to change out of his work clothes. He sprayed some cologne, checked his appearance in the mirror. ‘Play it cool,’ he told himself.
He walked out back into the living room, and around the couch. Sat next to Taylor, closer than he usually would’ve.
The window curtains were closed, the only light in the room coming from the television. The bright, white light highlighted the high points of Taylor’s face. He looked good, Chuck thought. Real good.
“Work was okay?” He asked, breaking the awkward silence after clearing his throat.
“Yeah.” Taylor murmured.
‘Okay,’ Chuck thought. ‘Not givin’ me much to work with here.’
‘Fuck it. Just say it, Chuck.’ He thought. He took a deep breath.
‘Here we go.’
Taylor glanced at Chuck briefly. Why was he acting so weird? Why was he so red? Hell he was almost as red as the night that he told him he loved him.
Wait.
“You know, Tay,” Chuck sighed, interrupting Taylor’s thoughts.
“I’ve been thinkin’ about you.”
Taylor shot him a side eye. What the hell? No way this was happening. Thankfully, Chuck was too busy looking at the floor, so he didn’t see the look Taylor gave him. He took a deep breath before continuing.
“Since that night. You know what I’m talkin’ about.” He paused to wet his lips, tongue darting out briefly.
“And I’ve been wonderin’… I’ve been wonderin’ if you’ve been thinkin’ about me, too.”
Chuck turned to look at him now, eyes searching his face anywhere, for anything.
“I don’t.. I don’t know what you mean, man.” Taylor stuttered. If he could blush, he’d be red as a tomato right about now. Was Chuck trying to tell him that he liked him? Sincerely? Sober?
“Damn it, Taylor!” Chuck groaned, frustrated. He ran a hand over his face before turning back to Taylor, closer than he was before.
“I love you. I *love* you. That night I said it, I meant it. I was drunk, yeah, I was, but I meant it.” He huffed, his face reddening with each word.
“Now for once, just once, stop bein’ shy and tell me if you love me back. If you don’t, I’ll leave you be, and I’ll pretend like none of this shit ever happened. But I’ve got to know, Tay. I have to know.”
Taylor was stunned. He took in Chucks appearance, face flushed, eyebrows furrowed. He was speechless, his brain short-circuited.
Chuck had told him he’d loved him. Sober. Right here, right now.
‘Say somethin’, Taylor!’ He shouted at himself, mentally. But he couldn’t, he couldn’t.
Instead, he reached forward, his hand brushing against Chuck’s jaw. He watched as Chuck’s eyes softened, his brows relaxing.
He wasn’t sure what happened in the next second or two. Did Chuck lean forward? Did Taylor close his eyes first? But the next thing he knew, Chuck was kissing him, and he was kissing back, and damn if it wasn’t everything he’d ever hoped for, dreamed of, fantasied about.
And then they were shifting and groaning and Taylor was on his back on the couch, and Chuck’s tongue was licking against his, and Taylor was holding on, pulling him closer, impossibly closer.
And when they pulled back, panting, the string of spit connecting them breaking, all he could do was lean in closer, again, his forehead pressing against Chuck’s.
“I love you, too. Always have.” Was what he settled on. Something he’d said two days ago. He’d meant it then, and he meant it now.
And Chuck grinned, that usual, stupid, gap-toothed grin. And that usual, stupid, gap-toothed grin made Taylor flush, as always.
“Me, too.”