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Colours might be the greatest thing ever invented, thinks Kevin. Give him a rainbow any day of the week. Or a paint palette or one of those shitty art sets that his sister always used to get for Christmas. Colours on colours on colours.
Like – blue. Blue like the ocean, blue like the Disney logo, blue like –
Or red. Kevin loves red. His brother used to own those LED lights that lit up every colour imaginable, but they’d always be red whenever Kevin wanted to enter his room – a warning, hazard lights. Pretty all the same. Jack had taken them down when silverfish got behind the strips, but for a year that had been Jack’s colour. He loves the red of cake frosting, too, and the red of the sunset, and the red of –
Green. Who doesn’t like green? Green like the sea when it’s more murky, green like the grass, green like the frames of Arnold’s glasses. Green like the bottle of the liquor they’re drinking.
Pink. Kevin squeezes his eyes shut and thinks pink and his swinging, seesaw mind makes him think of dancing and sparkly vests.
Kevin thinks about colours. Sometimes, when he squints, he feels like he can encompass the people he knows and loves into colours. Arnold is a hazy smudge of greenish-red – all swirls, hypnotic. Nabulungi is a cloud of purple lilac. Mafala is a distinguished shade of burnt amber. He’s always had this with colours – with music, and songs, too – but drunk and sleepy he’s seeing smears of rainbow on the walls as the music filters in from outside. Kevin drums his fingers against the floor in tune to the song, and thinks about blue and pink.
“Lord,” says a faraway voice. Kevin opens one eye. “How much did you drink?”
Blue eyes, sparkling and clear as a stormless sea. Red hair, lighter at the tips, sun-bleached. Kevin grins up at his boyfriend. The floor beneath him swims.
“Connor,” says Kevin.
“Kevin,” says Connor, “Why are you lying on the floor?”
Kevin looks around. Good question. The floor is not comfortable. But he couldn’t locate the couch or a bed. “Don’t know,” he says. “Come join me?”
Connor sighs. Kevin thinks for a second that he’s going to say no and starts pouting, but there’s a shuffling sound over him and then Connor is sprawling out sideways on the ground next to him. He holds himself very stiffly, measured, controlled. Kevin doesn’t know why. He also saw Connor drinking.
Kevin turns his head to the side. He wants to kiss Connor. Always does, but it’s an under-the-skin need, pulsing rapidly like his bloodstream. Why doesn’t he kiss him always? Drunk Kevin can’t entirely work it out. Something about taking things slow. Something about feeling awkward. Something about Heavenly Father. Something something nothing semantics.
Connor clears his throat, and Kevin realises that he’s just staring. Awed, mouth open. “You’re too beautiful,” Kevin blurts. It’s true. No word of a lie has been said, he’s not Arnold – Connor is gorgeous and Kevin is always a little outraged (but not complaining) that he’s the only person who seems to realise this.
“Too beautiful?” Connor raises an eyebrow. “Then what are you?”
“Staring,” says Kevin hopelessly.
“No,” Connor tuts, “If I’m – that. What does that make you?”
“Still staring,” guess Kevin, “I mean – no. I don’t know.”
Connor laughs at him. “It’s a good thing you’re so handsome.”
“Now,” Kevin says, “What’s that supposed to mean.”
“You are so pretty,” sighs Connor, “But so stupid.”
Kevin rolls over to swat him in the face. The effort leaves his limbs feeling gooey and sluggish, syrupy. Connor dissolves into fits of giggles, and Kevin doesn’t even touch him – his hand sinks against the ground, and he ends up lying with half of his torso on Connor’s chest, head buried against his boyfriend’s shoulder. “I’m not stupid,” he mutters.
“I know you’re not,” Connor tells him. “I was trying to say – that if you think I’m beautiful, then what are you?”
“A pretty princess,” Kevin says, mid-yawn.
Connor snorts. “Is that true,”
“Elsa said,” says Kevin. Maybe he did have too much to drink. His tongue feels like a wad of lumped cotton, and his head pulses occasionally, as if somebody is grabbing his brain and squeezing it. But also, he is very warm and very sated, and the floor is somehow less uncomfortable now he’s not alone lying on it. “When I was ten.”
“Disney World, Orlando,” recites Connor. Maybe Kevin’s told him this story before. He’s gonna tell it again for good measure.
“Orlando,” repeats Kevin. “Exactly. Anyways. When I was ten, I went to Disney World and Elsa told me I was a pretty princess and she’s a queen, so she’s right.”
“She told you that?”
“Yes,” says Kevin, “I mean, I asked her first.”
“You asked Elsa if you were the prettiest princess,” repeats Connor. Kevin feels somehow drunker.
“Yeah,” he says.
“Well,” says Connor, and tilts Kevin’s chin up with a hand so their gazes lock. “She was right.”
Kevin sort of loses the ability to connect words together for a second, because this is ridiculous, and he’s so very drunk, but also Connor looking at him like that and touching him like that is making his insides melt. He must go an embarrassing shade of red, because Connor dips his head, laughing at him. When they lock eyes again, Connor tuts softly.
“You’re such a dork,” he mutters, and it’s an inside-thoughts voice. Like he’s surprised he’s saying it. Kevin needs to hear that voice more. “Why are you lying on the floor?”
“Wanted to look at the ceiling,” mumbles Kevin, “And the room was spinning.”
“Is it still spinning?”
“A little bit less,” Kevin says.
“Why don’t we sit up,” Connor suggests. “You’re going to complain about your back tomorrow.”
Kevin makes a face. “I’m not.”
“You so will.”
“I never complain about anything,” retorts Kevin, but he hauls himself into a sitting position, back against the wall. Connor sits up too, next to him, and Kevin presses against his side. He turns his head to look at Connor, because he always wants to look at him. Connor blinks back at him. Big, big blue eyes. “Your eyes are blue,” Kevin mutters, “Way too blue.”
Connor snorts. “I didn’t notice.”
“Stop being sarcastic,” Kevin leans over, grabs his arm. “This is serious.”
“Clearly,” Connor’s lips are pressed together in a thin, forced line, like he’s trying not to laugh.
“I mean it,” says Kevin, “And you’re – where did you even get so many freckles. Why is that.”
Connor laughs, like he doesn’t mean to. “So you drunk is just you asking questions.”
“No,” Kevin pouts, “I’m – ugh. Stop being mean.”
“I’ll stop,” says Connor, and leans to kiss Kevin’s cheek. Kevin stays still and turns his face to the side, guiding his hand to Connor’s neck. Manages to kiss him: gentle, sweet, soft. It’s a good kiss, a nice kiss – they haven’t really kissed at all, not yet, not really, because Kevin gets scared and Connor gets freaked-out. Connor sighs against his mouth and kisses him again and Kevin can taste the burn of the foul liquor they’d been drinking against his tongue.
Connor pulls away, and his eyes are closed, smiling to himself. Kevin pokes him in the cheek. “Kiss me again,” he blurts.
“Needy,” remarks Connor, and Kevin raises a brow, because – yes, but also he’s feeling so attacked right now.
“Yes,” agrees Kevin, “Kiss me again?”
Connor takes pity on him, kisses him slower. His hand lands on Kevin’s hip and holds him and there’s electricity zipping beneath Kevin’s skin, heady and buzzing.
“We should kiss more,” decides Kevin.
“Now?” asks Connor, flushed.
“No – just – more,” Kevin says, “You’re my – boyfriend, aren’t you? I want to kiss you.”
Connor dips his head. Embarrassed, maybe. “You’re drunk.”
“I’ll say the same sober.”
“Kevin,” says Connor, “You’re too much for me.”
Something twists in Kevin’s stomach at the sound of that. It’s a comment he’s heard before, a comment that usually hurts to hear. His mother, after Kevin spent twenty minutes talking about Disney. His father, when Kevin had called to tell him about where his mission had ended up going. Everybody he’s ever met has seen him as too much, eventually. He swallows, but when he meets Connor’s gaze, he looks dazed. Awed.
“I am,” says Kevin, not entirely a question.
“You’re – you –” says Connor. He jabs Kevin in the chest with a finger. “You’re Kevin Price. And you’re sitting here looking like that saying you want to kiss me and I can’t cope.”
Kevin smiles. “Really,”
“It’s unfair, being around you,” Connor tells him sincerely. “I can’t believe you’re real.”
Kevin sort of really loves drunk Connor.
“I’m real,” says Kevin. “Also you’re acting like you didn’t give me an aneurysm for a month straight because of your dancing.”
Connor shakes his head. “What are you talking about.”
“Every single morning you’d be warming up in the kitchen and you were wearing those – shorts – and I think I forgot how to butter toast one time.”
“Was that when you just started licking the knife? Because that gave me trouble too.”
“Maybe,” says Kevin, earnest as anything, “But – really – believe me – those shorts.”
“Dork,” Connor says again, even though he’s blushing.
“Your dork,” Kevin beams at him. Connor tuts, but leans in to kiss him, quick and precise. Kevin doesn’t let him be quick and precise. He traps Connor’s face with his hands and pulls him closer, kisses him firm and reassuring. Connor lets him, for a minute, then two. Kevin really doesn’t want to stop. He tilts his body, shuffles so he’s kneeling in front of Connor, kisses him again, halfway into his lap. He feels very warm, all over, a sure rightness spreading through his bones. Connor’s mouth opens against his which is – new-ish – and Kevin’s hand slips into Connor’s hair.
When he pulls away, it might have been ten minutes or thirty. Kevin can’t tell. “See. We should do that more.”
“Okay, Kevin,” Connor agrees, talking slightly stilted, like he’s prethinking every word before saying it. Kevin sighs, hauls himself into his boyfriend’s lap, loops his arms around his neck. Connor blinks slowly at him, and Kevin shrugs, pressing a quick kiss to his neck. “You hurt to look at.”
Connor whispers it. Kevin thinks he doesn’t mean to say it.
“What?”
“Like looking at the sun,” mumbles Connor, “You’re just – so.”
He breaks off. Like Kevin understands what so means. He does, but only because of how Connor says it.
Kevin is generally quite adept at concealing his feelings about compliments. Usually, he smiles and plays them off – he’s used to them, after all – but he’s never been very good at hiding how he feels around Connor, and especially not drunk. He goes a shade of red akin to the skin of an apple, and tucks his head back against Connor’s shoulder.
Connor makes a noise. “You’re so very handsome,” he’s saying, like he’s keyed into why Kevin is hiding his face, “And – Lord, Kevin, I don’t know if you know this, but you have the most ridiculous waist I have ever seen.”
Kevin doesn’t unhide his face. “What?”
“I just want to grab it.” Connor mutters. “I mean – I –”
Kevin kisses his neck. Connor maybe squeaks.
“Arms,” says Connor, in a rush, “You lifted me up yesterday and I don’t think I’ve been the same since.”
Drinking, Kevin begins to realise, is just having the filter that usually prevents embarrassment being melted away. Not that he cares much. Nothing about this – them, huddled on the floor, in an empty dark room in Kitguli – is embarrassing. His heart jackhammers in his chest and though he’s known for a very long time that he loves Connor, this is the first time he feels like Connor can tell. More than that, this is the first time that he feels that maybe Connor might love him too. The stripped nature of their conversation, the vulnerability of the darkness, Connor talking to him like this – Kevin has never felt so much before, packaged into a slip of a moment.
“I did,” he says, way too late and dumbly. He had. He’d picked Connor up and placed him on the countertop and kissed him without waiting a second longer, and then they’d broken off awkwardly after a few minutes because one of the other elders dropped something loudly in a different room. “Sorry.”
“Now, why the fuck are you apologising?” Connor says. He’s never sworn around Kevin before. Curse his feeble, pathetic heart, but the sound sends something racing beneath his skin. “It’s not an issue.”
“Really,” mumbles Kevin, “So I can do it again?”
“Don’t you dare,” says Connor.
Kevin grins. Because that sounds something like a challenge. “Do you mean it?”
“Kevin, if you pick me up, I’ll throw up on you,” Connor informs him, and Kevin stays still.
They’re quiet for a minute. Two. Kevin clings to Connor, and the way they’re pressed against each other, he can feel his heart beating in his chest. A reassuring in-out hum. Kevin breathes along with it, trying to align himself to Connor’s heartbeat.
“...pretty princess,” Connor mumbles after more silence.
Kevin wishes he’d never said anything. “Shut up.”
“You gave yourself that nickname,” says Connor.
“Yeah,” mutters Kevin, “But it’s different when you say it.”
Connor might be smirking. Kevin isn’t looking to check. One finger rests delicately on the crown of Kevin’s forehead, looping around a lock of hair. “Better or worse than Elsa?”
“Better,” says Kevin, “Obviously.”
“Isn’t she your favourite?” asks Connor.
“Yeah,” Kevin feels touched he remembers, “You’re better.”
“I can’t sing Let It Go,” Connor tells him.
“Really?”
“I mean, I can. I’m just not Idina Menzel.”
Kevin frowns. “Who is that?”
Connor uses his other hand to tilt Kevin’s chin up. “What?”
“I don’t know who that is,” says Kevin.
“Idina Menzel,” repeats Connor again. “Elsa. Or Elphaba.”
“Oh,” Kevin shrugs. “I don’t know her.”
“Lord give me strength.” Connor pinches his nose. “The minute we get a decent internet connection I am showing you like, three different fuzzy Youtube videos.”
“I can’t wait,” says Kevin sleepily and means it. “To watch Adele Dazeem.”
“Kevin you are not being serious.”
Kevin laughs. “Sorry.” He spent his childhood watching interviews and award shows; overloading on as much as he could learn about the things he loved. Of course he knows who Connor is talking about.
“You are so annoying,” Connor tells him.
“You’re being mean.” Kevin says, kissing the underside of his jaw.
“Am I?”
“Yes,” huffs Kevin, “Be nice to me again.”
“You and your ability to fish for compliments will never cease to amaze me,” Connor says. But he pulls Kevin a little closer, and Kevin feels like jello in his arms, his head still shaky, his limbs all disconnected from his body. “I like you so much.” Connor whispers, a few moments later. It’s a soft, tiny admission. Honest and raw.
Kevin stills.
“You do?”
He knows this, because Connor said that when they kissed for the first time. But he hasn’t heard it in that tone of voice – soft, reverent, a hushed admission that sounds like something Connor never expected to say.
“Of course I do,” mutters Connor, “So, so much.”
“Me too,” Kevin tells him. “So much it makes me stupid.”
“You’re already stupid,” Connor says, voice teasing.
“I told you to be nice to me,” Kevin pouts.
“Sorry,” says Connor, not sounding sorry at all. “I can talk about your legs, if you want.”
Kevin snorts. “Only if I get to talk about yours.”
For whatever reason, that breaks Connor out in fits of giggles. Kevin follows shortly after him, head-bent, chest-aching giggles, the kind that leave his eyes streaming. He’s still smiling long after he tips his head back in a futile attempt to shake the laughter from his body, and so is Connor. Kevin meets his gaze, and beams right at him, and Connor smiles back.
“You’re my favourite colour,” blurts Kevin, which makes no sense. Connor laughs again.
“What does that mean.”
“It’s what I was thinking about,” says Kevin, “Before you found me. Colours.”
“What colour am I?” asks Connor.
“Blue,” Kevin explains, “Pink. Red. Yellow. I don’t know.”
“A rainbow,” muses Connor.
“Something like that.” Kevin shrugs. “Gay.” He adds, eloquently.
Connor makes a face. “...gay,” he says, in agreement, a few moments later. “Kevin – as nice as the floor is – as nice as you are – I think my ass went numb about twenty minutes ago.”
“Ohhhh nooo,” Kevin shakes his head, “Stand up. If we lose your ass I don’t know what we’ll do.”
“Who is we,” mutters Connor as Kevin helps him up. Connor stands up, back straight as a ruler, and Kevin sinks against him, arms still looped around his neck. Now he’s standing, the alcohol feels very unsettled in his stomach and the room smudges around him all over again.
“You know like, the mission. Me.” Kevin waves a hand, and almost falls over.
“Kevin Price,” says Connor, “Let’s get you to bed.”
“If you come with me,” Kevin thinks he might be pleading. Connor rolls his eyes, but he allows Kevin to drag him through the dim-lit corridors of the mission hut, round into his and Arnold’s bedroom. The bed is made and the sheets are fresh and Kevin topples onto them as soon as he’s in the vicinity, yanking Connor down with him. Connor huffs against his neck, but he doesn’t move.
“Are you not going to get ready for bed,” Connor says eventually, Kevin’s arms around his neck, holding him in place.
“Mmmphmm,” mumbles Kevin, half-asleep. Connor sighs, and stays, and Kevin falls asleep to the gentle blend of their mixed breathing, and birdsong through the cracked-open window.