Work Text:
Sunday-Soft
i.
It started, as far as Hong could tell, around eight o’clock on Sunday night.
Sunday was the bakery’s last open day of the week and Hong had been on his feet since five. By seven he was upstairs in the apartment, fresh out of the shower with his hair still damp, settling onto the couch in the soft loose clothes he wore when he was finally off the clock. Nut, who had closed the flower shop at the usual six, had cooked them a small simple dinner—eggs and rice and the leftover green curry from Saturday—and they had eaten on the couch with the small fan on the floor pointed at both of them and the windows cracked open to whatever breeze the city was offering.
By eight the dishes were stacked on the coffee table. By eight-fifteen the show they had been working their way through for a month was on, low, in the background.
By eight-thirty Hong realized that Nut had not, in twenty minutes, stopped touching him.
It was not an unusual thing in itself. They were both physical. Nut, especially in the evenings, was a person who liked to keep some part of himself in contact with some part of Hong—a hand on Hong’s knee, an arm along the back of the couch behind Hong’s shoulders, a foot pressed against Hong’s foot. Hong had grown so used to it that he often did not register it.
He was registering it tonight.
Tonight Nut had done the following. At five past eight, scooted closer to Hong on the couch by maybe two inches. At ten past, dropped his head onto Hong’s shoulder, which was not unusual. At fifteen past, slid his arm under Hong’s arm and slotted his hand into Hong’s hand, which was—okay, also not unusual. At twenty past, on the way back from the bathroom, paused next to the couch to put both hands on Hong’s shoulders from behind and stand there for a second before sitting down, which was—Hong was now starting to keep a list—slightly unusual. At twenty-five past, when the show had cut to a quiet scene, turned his face into the side of Hong’s neck and just—stayed there. Breathing.
He was still there.
Hong tipped his head, very slightly, to look down at him.
Nut’s eyes were half-closed. He looked like a person who was either falling asleep or pretending to.
Hong went back to the show.
He gave it five more minutes. Nut did not move. Nut, in fact, slipped his arm—slowly, carefully, like Hong might startle—across Hong’s stomach and let it rest there, with his fingers spread flat. He pressed his face a little more firmly into Hong’s neck.
Hong, internally, was beaming.
“Nut?”
“Mm.”
“Are you tired?”
“A little.”
“Want to go to bed?”
“In a minute.”
“Okay.”
A pause.
“Hong.”
“Yes.”
“Do you—do you have anything you have to do tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow is Monday.”
“Yes.”
“Monday is our day off.”
“Yes.”
“Are you asking me if I have anything I have to do on our day off.”
A small silence.
“…Maybe.”
“Nut.”
“What.”
“Why are you asking me that.”
“No reason.”
“Mm.”
“It’s not—it’s not a reason.”
“Okay.”
“Hong.”
“Mm.”
“Forget I asked.”
Hong, who had been about to laugh, did not laugh. He kept his face neutral. He kept watching the show. He tightened his arm, a fraction, around Nut’s shoulders.
“I do not have anything I have to do tomorrow,” he said, casually. “All day. Nothing. Wide open.”
Nut, against his neck, let out a quiet relieved breath.
He did not say anything else.
Hong filed this—every piece of it—for later use.
ii.
They went to bed at ten.
This was, also, slightly unusual. Nut, on Sunday nights, normally read for half an hour after he got in bed. He had a stack of small books on his nightstand at any given time and he liked to do this—a chapter, sometimes two, before he turned out his lamp. Hong, who almost never read in bed because Hong was usually asleep within five minutes of horizontal, normally fell asleep to the sound of pages turning beside him.
Tonight Nut did not pick up a book.
Tonight Nut got into bed and immediately turned onto his side, facing Hong, and tucked his hand under his cheek and looked at him with an expression Hong could only describe as waiting.
“Hi,” Hong said.
“Hi.”
“Not reading?”
“Not tonight.”
“Mm.”
A pause.
“Hong.”
“Yes.”
“Can I—can I come over there.”
Nut was, currently, about eight inches away. There was no real distance to close. The fact that Nut was asking about it—was asking permission to scoot eight inches closer to his own partner in his own bed—was, Hong realized, the entire point.
Hong, who was very seriously considering not surviving the next twenty-four hours, kept his face neutral.
“Of course you can,” he said.
Nut came over.
He pressed himself against Hong, tucked his face into the front of Hong’s shirt, and exhaled. It was a long exhale. The kind a person did when they had been holding their breath without realizing.
Hong put his hand on the back of Nut’s head and stroked, slow.
“Hi,” Hong said again.
“Hi.”
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Just—checking.”
“I am—I am fine. I am very fine. I am just—I am just being—like this. Right now.”
“Mm hm.”
“Is that okay?”
“Nut.”
“Hong, it is not the same as last time. I am not—I am not in a bad mood. Nothing is wrong. I am—I am not even tired. I am just—”
“You are just being like this.”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay, sweetheart. Yes. Of course okay.”
Nut, against his chest, made the smallest possible sound. It was a sound that Hong, three weeks ago, would not have known the meaning of. Now—having heard it for the first time on the morning after Mrs. Wattana and the lost umbrella, and having heard it three or four times since, in small careful new contexts—Hong recognized it instantly. It was a sound that meant I have just been told a thing I needed to be told and I do not know what to do with my body about it.
Hong recognized it. Hong, internally, was going to lie down forever about it.
He kissed the top of Nut’s head.
“Sleep,” he said.
“Okay.”
“And then in the morning I am going to take very good care of you.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Yes I do. Shh.”
“Hong—”
“Sleep.”
Nut, after a beat, did. Within five minutes he was breathing slow and even against Hong’s chest, with his hand still curled in the fabric of Hong’s shirt over his sternum, like he had not quite trusted himself to fully let go.
Hong, who did not fall asleep for another forty minutes, lay there with one hand resting on the back of Nut’s head and his eyes open in the dim, and thought about absolutely nothing else but the small soft weight of him.
iii.
In the morning, Nut was already awake when Hong surfaced.
This was—for the second time in three weeks—unusual. Even on Mondays, Nut was usually the first one to get restless, the first to leave the bed for water or fruit or a book or some small task he had remembered in his sleep. On a normal day he was showered and dressed and downstairs by the time Hong rolled out of bed with one eye open.
Today Nut was still in bed.
He was not asleep. He was lying on his side, facing Hong, propped on one elbow, watching him.
When Hong opened his eyes, Nut said, “Good morning.”
“Hi.”
“You slept on your stomach.”
“Did I?”
“With your face mashed into the pillow. It was very ugly.”
“Nut.”
“I am observing.”
“You are being mean.”
“I am being attentive.”
Hong, who had been working his way up to fully awake, registered—slowly—what was different. Nut was still in bed at nine in the morning. Nut had been watching him sleep for, possibly, a while. Nut was teasing him, lazily, sweetly, and had not yet, in any visible way, started the day.
Nut was, Hong realized, in the mode.
Hong rolled onto his side. Propped his head on his hand. Mirrored him.
“How long have you been awake,” he said.
“A while.”
“How long is a while.”
“I don’t know. Maybe an hour.”
“And you have just been—”
“Yes.”
“Watching me sleep.”
“Yes.”
“That is—Nut, that is—slightly creepy.”
“Mm.”
“Slightly. Not all the way creepy. But there is a threshold—”
“Hong.”
“Mm.”
“You are pretty when you sleep.”
Hong, who had been about to say something else, did not say it.
He looked at Nut. Nut was looking back at him, perfectly calm, with the small private expression of a person who had decided to say a thing and was now seeing it through. His hair was sticking up slightly on one side. His eyes were soft.
“Nut.”
“What.”
“You did not used to say things like that.”
“I know.”
“You—Nut, you used to blush when I said things like that to you. You used to—”
“I know.”
“What happened to you.”
“You did.”
Hong, mid-breath, lost a second somewhere.
“Nut—”
“Sorry. Was that too much?”
“That was—”
“I am being like this. I am being like this all day. You said I could.”
“I said you could.”
“You said it was—you said it was clear. That you would like it very much.”
“I did say that.”
“Mm.”
“So this is—this is what we are doing.”
“This is what we are doing.”
Hong looked at him for a long beat.
Then he closed the small distance between them on the pillow and kissed him, softly, on the mouth.
“Okay,” he said, against his mouth. “Okay. Bring it.”
“Hong—”
“Bring it, Nut. Show me. I am ready.”
“You make it sound like a competition.”
“It is not a competition. It is just—I have wanted this. For a long time. I am not—I am not going to act normal about it. I am going to be insufferable. I am giving you fair warning.”
“I knew that.”
“Did you.”
“Yes.”
“How.”
“Three weeks ago. You said you were going to be insufferable about it for weeks. You said it during—” Nut paused. “You know when you said it.”
“I do know when I said it.”
“You said weeks.”
“Yes.”
“I am holding you to weeks.”
“I am at three. I have more in me.”
“Mm.”
Nut, after a beat, scooted closer. Pressed his forehead against Hong’s. Closed his eyes.
“Hong.”
“Mm.”
“What do you want to do today.”
“Mm.”
“I do not want to get up yet but—but eventually.”
“Eventually.”
“Eventually we should go somewhere.”
“Where do you want to go.”
“I do not know. Maybe the market. The Sunday market.”
“It is Monday.”
“The Monday version of the Sunday market. The one where it is half-empty and there is a man who sells custard apples.”
“That one.”
“I would like a custard apple.”
“I will buy you a custard apple.”
“Hong—”
“I will buy you any custard apple you want.”
“Hong.”
“Mm.”
“Stop being so—”
“What.”
“Stop being so—eager.”
“You are eager.”
“I am eager internally. You are being eager externally. It is making me—it is making me self-conscious.”
“Nut, you are currently lying in bed half an hour after you should have gotten up. You are watching me sleep. You are asking me to take you to the market and buy you fruit. You have, in the last twelve hours, given me approximately seventeen new pieces of evidence of how you actually want to be loved. I am—Nut, I am trying to be cool about it. I am simply not capable of it. I am sorry.”
Nut, against his forehead, was smiling.
“Okay,” he said, quietly.
“Okay?”
“Okay. Just—be a little less obviously gleeful in public.”
“I make no promises.”
“Hong—”
“I will try. I will try very hard.”
“Mm.”
“Now get up. I am hungry. I will make you toast.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I am going to.”
“Hong—”
“And eggs. With the scallion. You like that.”
“Hong, I will get up, I do not need—”
“Stay. Stay there. I am bringing it.”
Nut, opening his eyes, looked at him.
“Hong.”
“What.”
“You are—you are taking this so seriously.”
“Mm.”
“I—I love you.”
“I love you. Stay.”
Hong got up. He padded into the kitchen. He stood at the counter and pressed both hands flat against it and exhaled, once, very slowly, just so he could pull himself together before he started cracking eggs.
In the bedroom, Nut, who had pulled the sheet up to his nose, was smiling at the ceiling.
iv.
On the way to the market they stopped at Tui’s.
This was not unusual—they stopped at Tui’s most times they went anywhere, because Tui’s was on the way to most places and because not stopping at Tui’s, when passing Tui’s, was the kind of thing Tui would bring up for weeks. What was unusual was that Nut, who normally stood at the counter and made polite conversation while Tui made their drinks, today stayed pressed against Hong’s side the entire time with his hand hooked in the back pocket of Hong’s jeans, and let Hong do all the talking, and said nothing except a small “Hi, Tui” at the start and a small “Thank you, Tui” at the end.
Tui, who missed nothing, made the matcha, made the coffee, slid them across the counter, looked at Nut tucked against Hong’s side like a barnacle, looked at Hong, and said, “He’s in a mood.”
“He’s having a day,” Hong said.
“A good day or—”
“A very good day. Don’t tease him.”
“I would never,” Tui said, who absolutely would, but who took one more look at Nut’s face—soft, content, openly leaning—and visibly decided, for once, to let it go. “On the house. Both of them. Go on. You’re blocking my counter being adorable.”
They went on, drinks in hand. Nut, on the sidewalk, said quietly, “He didn’t tease me.”
“I asked him not to.”
“He listened.”
“He likes you. Everyone likes you. You just don’t believe it on normal days. Today you believe it.” Hong bumped him gently with his shoulder. “I like today.”
The Monday version of the Sunday market was, as advertised, half-empty.
Most of the stalls were dim and unmanned, with their tarps rolled down and their tables stacked with crates from the weekend. A few of them were open, though—the produce vendors who came in daily, the small spice woman who set up her aluminum tins in the same corner every morning, the noodle stall under the green awning that had been there longer than either of them had been alive—and the late-morning light came through the rolled-up tarps in long warm bars and the whole market had the soft quiet feeling of a place that was, briefly, between shifts.
Hong loved it. He had always loved it. Mondays at the market had been one of the small things he had introduced into their shared schedule about a year ago, on a different Monday when Nut had been working on a particularly difficult arrangement and had not wanted to leave the house, and Hong had said come on, please, just for an hour, you will like it, and Nut had—reluctantly—come, and had, in fact, liked it.
They went, now, maybe twice a month. Nut would buy fruit for the week. Hong would visit the spice woman and refill whatever he was low on. They would have noodles at the green awning. They would walk home holding the same plastic bag because Nut, who had opinions about how fruit should be handled, would not trust Hong with it alone.
This was the routine.
This morning, the routine was—Hong noticed—running on a slightly different setting.
For one thing, Nut was holding his hand.
This was not, in itself, weird. They held hands sometimes in public. Not always—they were both relatively reserved by default—but sometimes, in lower-key areas, on quieter streets, when neither of them was carrying anything. Hong did not always notice it; it was, like everything else, just something that happened.
He noticed this morning.
Because Nut was holding his hand firmly. Threaded, fingers laced, with a kind of low quiet grip. Nut had taken his hand at the door of the apartment. He had not let go on the way down the stairs, on the way out onto the street, on the bus ride here, on the walk in from where the bus had let them off. He was holding it now, in the middle of the market, while Hong was looking at jars of dried chili.
It was, Hong was discovering, unbelievably cute.
“What about this one,” Hong said, holding up a small jar.
“Too dark.”
“Are you sure?”
“It is the one we had last year. You did not like it.”
“I—” Hong paused. “Did I not like it.”
“You said it tasted like rust.”
“Did I say that.”
“You said it tasted like a coin. You then revised to rust.”
“Nut.”
“What.”
“You are paying attention to things.”
“I have been paying attention to things this entire time. You are only noticing now because I am being—like this.”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
Hong put the jar down. The spice woman, who had been pretending not to listen to them, smiled at her own hands.
They moved on.
At the next stall—a small wide table of mangoes and pineapples and the small green oranges Nut liked—Nut paused. Hong, beside him, paused too. Nut did not let go of his hand. Nut, in fact, leaned, just a little, into him, the way you lean into someone not for balance but just to be against them.
“What about this one,” Nut said.
“This one what.”
“The pineapple. Is it ripe.”
“I do not know how to tell.”
“Yes you do.”
“I do not.”
“Hong.”
“I genuinely do not. Tell me how.”
“You—at the bottom. Press.”
“Press where.”
“The eyes. The small—”
“Show me.”
Nut, with his free hand, pressed his thumb against the bottom of the pineapple. He did this in the slightly careful way of a person who was trying to do a normal task while not letting go of his partner’s hand even a little.
“It should give. Slightly. Not too much.”
“Mm.”
“This one is—this one is okay. It will be ready in two days.”
“Buy it.”
“Hong.”
“What.”
“I do not need a pineapple.”
“Buy it. I want to see you eat a pineapple this week.”
“Hong—”
“Buy the pineapple, Nut.”
Nut, who Hong could see was—at some level under all of this—also enjoying being told what to do for once, paid for the pineapple. The vendor put it in a small plastic bag. Hong, with his free hand, took the bag.
“You don’t need to—”
“You’re holding my hand.”
“I have a hand.”
“You have a hand which is holding my hand.”
“It is—Hong, I have another hand.”
“Yes but this hand is mine now.”
Nut, after a beat, smiled at the ground.
“Okay,” he said. Very quietly.
They moved on.
At the noodle stall they sat on the small plastic stools and Nut ordered for both of them, the way he sometimes did. The lady who ran the stall had—Hong noticed for the first time, despite a year of coming here regularly—a quiet small fondness for Nut. She brought them their noodles and tipped her head, very faintly, in greeting. Nut tipped his head back.
“Hong.”
“Mm.”
“Sit closer.”
Hong looked at him.
Nut was sitting upright on the stool, eating his noodles in the careful methodical way he always did. He had not looked up when he said it. He was looking at his bowl.
Hong, internally, was beaming.
He scooted his stool, an inch, sideways. So that their thighs were touching on the small bench-like seating.
“Better?”
“Better.”
Nut, still not looking up, was, Hong could see, fighting a small smile.
The noodle lady, behind her counter, had also clocked all of this. Hong met her eye briefly. She gave him a small almost-imperceptible smile and went back to wiping down a bowl.
They ate. Nut was—Hong was registering with continued private joy—also slower than usual. He was a careful eater normally, but today he was specifically dragging it out, like he was not in any rush to get back up because being seated and thigh-to-thigh with Hong was, in itself, the thing he wanted to be doing.
“Nut.”
“Mm.”
“Do you want anything else.”
“No.”
“Anything.”
“No, I am fine.”
“Custard apple. You said you wanted one.”
“Oh.” Nut looked up. “Yes. I forgot.”
“You forgot.”
“I was thinking about other things.”
“What other things.”
“None of your business.”
“Nut.”
“I was thinking about you, Hong, do not make me say it—”
Hong, sitting next to him on the small plastic stool, with a bowl of noodles in his hands and a plastic bag with a pineapple in it on the ground at his feet, had to put his bowl down for a second.
“Hong.”
“Yes.”
“What.”
“Nothing.”
“You put your bowl down.”
“I was—I was admiring the architecture.”
“Hong.”
“Mm.”
“Do not make a scene. Do not make a scene at the noodle stall. Please.”
“I am not making a scene. I am sitting here being normal.”
“You look—”
“What.”
“You look extremely not normal.”
Hong, who was—yes, he could feel it—definitely smiling like an idiot, made an effort and pulled his face back to a more dignified expression.
“Better?”
“Marginally.”
“Eat your noodles.”
“I am eating my noodles.”
“Slower. I want to sit here longer.”
Nut, beside him, made a pleased little hum and ate, deliberately, even slower. Hong picked his bowl back up. They sat there, thigh-to-thigh, for another fifteen minutes, while the late morning kept being a late morning and the noodle lady, ten feet away, continued to pretend she was not watching them with great fondness.
v.
After noodles they walked.
Hong had not, in the morning, planned the walk. The walk was a spontaneous decision—Nut, when they were paying for the noodles, had glanced toward the side street that led down to the small canal-side park and had said can we go that way home in a small voice, and Hong had said yes, of course, and that had been that.
The park, on a Monday, was very nearly empty.
A few old men playing checkers under a tree. A woman with a baby in a stroller. A teenager on a bench in a school uniform who should, probably, have been in school but who was carefully looking at his phone like nobody could see him if he did not see them. The canal was olive-green and slow. The air smelled, faintly, of jasmine from somebody’s nearby garden, mixed with the small wet algae smell of the water.
Nut, on the way in, took Hong’s hand again.
He had let go briefly to pay for the noodles. He had taken it back almost immediately afterward.
He kept it now.
They walked, slow, along the small path that ran parallel to the water. Hong, with the pineapple bag in his other hand, did not say anything for a while. Nut did not either. It was a comfortable silence—they were, at this point, good at this—and the canal moved beside them and the leaves above them moved, a little, in the small intermittent breeze, and Hong was very aware of Nut’s hand in his and Nut’s shoulder, every few steps, brushing his.
“Hong.”
“Mm.”
“You are being—you are being good about this.”
“Good about what.”
“About—about today.”
“Oh.”
“I was—I was worried.”
“About what.”
“That I would feel—that I would feel weird. Doing this. In public. I have—I have not done it before.”
“You’ve held my hand in public, Nut.”
“I have not held your hand and also asked you to scoot closer at the noodle stall and also asked you to buy a pineapple and also—and also done all of it without—without my usual self editing it. I have been—” he searched. “I have been—pre-editing—everything I do in public, for as long as we have been together. I am not, today.”
“Mm.”
“And I was worried I would feel—weird.”
“And do you.”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“No, I—I feel—Hong, I feel—I feel very normal. I feel—I feel like a person who is walking with the person I love along a canal and asking for things I want. I feel—I feel okay. I feel like nobody is looking. Which they aren’t. But also if they were—I think I would not—I think I would still feel okay.”
Hong’s chest did a particular, specific thing.
“Nut.”
“Mm.”
“I am going to say something. And I would like you to not interrupt me.”
“Okay.”
“I am very proud of you.”
“Hong—”
“Don’t interrupt.”
“I am not interrupting. I am—registering.”
“Register more quietly.”
“Okay.”
“I am very proud of you. I—I have watched you do—not this—for two years. I have watched you self-edit. I have watched you fold yourself down in public. Not in a bad way—you have never been timid, Nut, you have never once been timid—but you have always been—contained. And I have loved the contained version. I do. I will always. But I am—I am so—I am so happy to be on a walk with the uncontained version. I cannot—I do not have language. There is no language for how—for how much I—”
“Hong—”
“Don’t.”
“I am crying.”
“Nut—”
“I am crying a little. Outside. At the canal. Hong, what are you doing to me.”
“I am sorry.”
“You are not sorry.”
“I am—I am a little sorry.”
Nut, beside him, laughed wetly and squeezed his hand. Hong, with the pineapple in his other hand, did not know what to do with himself, so he kept walking, and squeezed back.
They walked the rest of the canal in silence.
When they came out of the park onto the small main street that would take them back toward home, Nut, without breaking pace, spoke.
“I want ice cream.”
Hong, who had been about to say something about the bus, stopped walking. Looked at him.
“You—what.”
“I want ice cream. There is the place. The small one. The Thai-style coconut one. With the toppings.”
“Nut.”
“What.”
“It is eleven thirty in the morning.”
“And?”
“And—well. I—okay. Yes. Of course. Ice cream.”
“You are looking at me funny.”
“I am looking at you with great affection. It looks weird because I am usually trying to manage it. I am not managing it today.”
“You said you would try to manage it.”
“I have been trying.”
“This is trying?”
“Yes.”
“Hong—”
“I am taking you for ice cream, Nut. Stop arguing with me.”
“I am not arguing.”
“You are arguing.”
“I am—I am noting.”
“Note quietly. Walk.”
He pulled, gently, on Nut’s hand. Nut, with the ghost of a smile, came.
vi.
The ice cream place was small. It was, on a Monday at almost noon, nearly deserted. There was a teenager working the counter who was on her phone and who looked at them with the mild irritation of a person whose break had just ended.
Nut ordered for both of them. He got the coconut for himself, with peanuts and red beans, the way he always did. He got a different one for Hong—Hong, who liked his coconut plain, with nothing on it.
He paid before Hong could.
“Nut.”
“Mm.”
“I said I would buy you—”
“You bought me a pineapple.”
“That is not—”
“And you bought me noodles.”
“You bought me—”
“Hong. I am buying ice cream. Please.”
Hong, after a beat, looked at him.
“Okay,” he said.
They took the small bowls outside. There was a low wall along the side of the building, in the shade, and they sat on it together—Nut, again, sitting very close. Their knees were touching.
Nut ate his ice cream slowly. Hong, with his bowl in one hand, kept glancing at him.
Nut, eventually, noticed.
“What.”
“Nothing.”
“You keep looking at me.”
“I am looking at you slightly less than you looked at me asleep this morning.”
“That was different.”
“How.”
“You were asleep. You could not be embarrassed.”
“You are embarrassed.”
“Mildly.”
“Why.”
“Because—because I have not—I have not bought you anything in public in all this time. I have not—I have not let myself want a thing in public. I have not—I have not asked you to sit closer. I—” Nut, with his small wooden spoon, was looking at his ice cream. “I am being a lot.”
“You are not being a lot.”
“I am being a lot, Hong.”
“You are being,” Hong said, slowly, “exactly the right amount.”
“Hong—”
“You are being the right amount. You have been being—too little—all this time. Today you are being the right amount. The amount you have always been on the inside. The amount you should always be.”
“Hong—”
“That is what I think. For the record.”
A long pause.
Nut, beside him, took a slow bite of ice cream.
“Hong.”
“Yes.”
“I am going to do this more.”
“Mm hm.”
“Not—not every day. I do not know if I have the—I do not know if I have the resources for every day.”
“You don’t have to do it every day.”
“I know.”
“You can do it whenever you want.”
“I know.”
“I am going to be here whenever you want to do it.”
“I know.”
“You can show up and be like Hong, today is the day, and I am going to—”
“You are going to clear your schedule.”
“I am going to clear my schedule. I am going to—I am going to prepare. I am going to wake up that morning and be insufferable from the first second.”
Nut, beside him, laughed. He had ice cream on the corner of his mouth.
Hong, who had been keeping his hands to himself, finally cracked. He reached up and wiped the ice cream off, very lightly, with his thumb.
Nut, who in any other context would have squirmed away, leaned into it.
“Hong.”
“Mm.”
“You have—you have ice cream on your face.”
“Where.”
“Right—” Nut leaned over and kissed Hong, very briefly, on the corner of his mouth. “There.”
Hong, on the low wall outside a Thai-style ice cream shop on a near-empty Monday morning in his neighborhood, was—he was acutely aware—being kissed by Nut, on his face, in public, in plain view of the teenager inside who could absolutely see them through the window.
He did not, for once, look around.
“Nut.”
“What.”
“I love you.”
“I love you.”
“I am—I am going to be insufferable about this for the rest of my life, you understand. Not weeks. The rest of my life.”
“Okay.”
“You are committing to this.”
“Yes.”
“This is on the record.”
“It is on the record.”
“Okay.”
Nut, beside him, took another small bite of ice cream and looked, mildly, at the empty street, and Hong, who was beginning to think that he had won some kind of lottery whose existence he had not previously been aware of, took a bite of his own.
vii.
They walked home the long way.
Or—Nut walked, and Hong walked, and they took a route that was at least twenty minutes longer than they needed, because Nut, halfway back, had said can we take the way past the dog in his small Sunday-soft voice and Hong had said yes, and they had detoured.
The dog was not really the dog. It was a particular dog. It belonged to a man who ran a small shoe-repair place on a side street two blocks off their usual route. The dog was an old, fat brown dog with one milky eye and one good one, and it sat in a square of sun in front of the shoe-repair place every day of every week regardless of weather. Nut had a fondness for this dog. He had developed it over the year and a half he had been routinely walking the long way home from things. He had not, until this morning, ever told Hong this.
“This is the dog,” Nut said, as they approached.
“This is the dog.”
“His name is Noi.”
“Of course it is.”
“It is a good name.”
“It is a great name.”
The dog raised its head, a little, when they came up to it. It thumped its tail, once, against the concrete. Nut, letting go of Hong’s hand for the first time in an hour, crouched down and held the back of his hand out, the way you were supposed to with strange dogs even though Noi was clearly not a strange dog at all and had clearly been being greeted by Nut for at least a year.
Noi licked his knuckles. Nut, crouched, smiled.
Hong stood behind him with the pineapple bag in his hand and watched his partner pet an elderly dog he had not, until this morning, mentioned, and felt a small specific thing in his chest he was going to have to do something with eventually.
“Hi,” Nut said to the dog. “Hi. Hi, Noi. Hi. Good boy.”
“Nut.”
“Mm.”
“You talk to him.”
“Mm.”
“You have been talking to this dog for a year and a half.”
“On my way home from the wholesaler. Sometimes.”
“And you did not tell me.”
“It did not—it did not come up.”
“Nut.”
“What.”
“I am going to think about this all week.”
“About what.”
“About—about you. Talking to this dog. Hi, Noi. Good boy. I am going to think about it for the entire week.”
“Hong—”
“For the entire month maybe.”
“You are being—”
“I have warned you. I have warned you several times now. I am being insufferable. I am being insufferable for the entire rest of our lives.”
“Hong.”
“Yes.”
“Can you—can you crouch down.”
Hong, with the pineapple bag, crouched down. He was now eye-level with Nut, who was eye-level with Noi, who was eye-level with—actually, Noi was higher up than both of them, because Noi was on a small concrete step. Noi looked between them with mild interest. Nut took Hong’s free hand again. Held it.
“What.”
“You wanted to meet him.”
“I—yes. I did. I did want to meet him.”
“This is him.”
“Hi, Noi.”
Noi, who had reached the upper limit of how much social interaction he was willing to do in one morning, sighed and rested his head back down on his paws.
Hong, crouching, looked at Nut.
Nut, crouching, looked at Hong.
“Hong.”
“Yes.”
“I am going to be very embarrassed about today. Tomorrow.”
“Probably.”
“In, like, six hours.”
“Yes.”
“I am going to be—I am going to wake up tomorrow morning and remember that I made you sit closer at the noodle stall and I am going to want to die.”
“That is fine.”
“It is not fine. I will be—I will be a small mess.”
“That is fine too. I will deal with that mess. Tomorrow.”
“Hong—”
“I will. I have notes. I have catalogued. I have a degree.”
“You have honors.”
“I have honors. Yes.”
Nut, beside him, on the sidewalk in front of a shoe-repair place in their neighborhood with their hands joined and an old dog dozing two feet away, smiled.
“Okay,” he said.
“Okay.”
“Get up. Your knees are going to hurt.”
“My knees are fine.”
“You are twenty-four. They are not.”
“You are also twenty-four. I had my birthday six months before you.”
“And in those six months mine learned to be cautious. Yours will too. Get up.”
They got up. They started walking again. Nut took Hong’s hand back almost immediately.
viii.
They got home around two.
Hong, who was—surprisingly—tired, made them both lemonade and they sat on the small balcony where they sometimes had breakfast. The afternoon sun was high. The herbs in the terra-cotta pots needed water; Hong watered them. Nut, in the chair, was watching him do it.
“Hong.”
“Mm.”
“Come sit.”
Hong came and sat.
Nut, who was in the chair Hong usually sat in, pulled him over by the wrist so that Hong was sitting on the arm of his chair. Hong, balanced awkwardly on the wooden arm, looked down at him.
“You are going to fall,” Hong said.
“I will not.”
“You are going to break the chair.”
“It is a strong chair.”
“Nut—”
“Sit, Hong.”
Hong, with great reluctance and a small private flare of pleasure, scooted from the arm of the chair into Nut’s lap proper. The chair, which had not been built for two grown men, complained. Nut wrapped both arms around his middle.
“This is unsafe,” Hong said.
“This is fine.”
“Nut.”
“What.”
“Are you going to—are you going to be like this every Monday now.”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t say oh like that. I cannot—I do not have the resources for every Monday.”
“That’s what you said this morning.”
“It is still true. I cannot—Hong, I cannot do this every Monday, I will implode.”
“Implode?”
“I am going to implode tonight as it is. There is—there is a limit. To how much of my own—of my own—whatever—I can do in one day. I am—I am at maybe seventy percent of my limit. I will reach a hundred by sundown. I will have to spend most of tomorrow lying on the floor.”
“You will not have to lie on the floor.”
“I might.”
“You can lie on me.”
“Hong—”
“You can. I will be there. I will be there for the lying. I will be there for the floor part too if you need.”
Nut, against the back of his shoulder, made a soft sound low in his throat and pressed his forehead between Hong’s shoulder blades.
“Hong.”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
“For what.”
“For—for today. For—for letting me. For making it easy.”
“I did not make it easy. You did. I just—I just paid attention.”
“Yes. You paid attention. You—Hong. You are so good at paying attention. To me. I am—I am going to have to do better. At paying attention to you.”
“You pay plenty of attention to me.”
“No. I—I pay attention in one way. The taking-care-of way. I do not—I have not been doing the other way. The asking-for-things way. The being-needy way. The—”
“Nut.”
“Yes.”
“You are doing it right now.”
A pause.
“Oh,” Nut said.
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
“You are paying attention to me right now. You took my hand all day. You asked me to sit closer. You took me to meet Noi. You—Nut, you took me to meet your dog. You let me in. That is paying attention. That is paying me attention. Do you understand?”
A longer pause.
“Yes,” Nut said, against Hong’s shoulder blades.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
“And Nut.”
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow when you wake up and you are embarrassed about all of this, I want you to remember that I have catalogued it, and I am going to bring it up at strategic moments for the rest of our lives, and there is nothing you can do about it.”
“Hong—”
“I will bring it up at our wedding.”
“Our—”
A beat. A held breath.
“Hong.”
“Mm.”
“You just said our wedding.”
“Did I.”
“Yes.”
“Slipped out.”
“Hong.”
“Mm.”
“…Okay.”
“Okay what.”
“…Okay.”
Hong, sitting in Nut’s lap on the balcony with the herbs freshly watered and the afternoon sun coming through the leaves of the tree next door, did not say anything for a long second.
“Nut.”
“Mm.”
“You okay back there.”
“Yes. Eat your lemonade.”
“Lemonade is a drink. You do not eat it.”
“Drink it then.”
“Nut—”
“Hong.”
“Mm.”
“Drink your lemonade, sit in my lap, and do not ask me to clarify what I just agreed to. I am at—I told you. I am at maybe eighty percent. I will not survive a clarification. Tomorrow. Maybe.”
Hong, looking out at the tree, smiled.
“Tomorrow,” he said.
“Tomorrow.”
He drank his lemonade.
Nut, behind him, did not let go. His arms, around Hong’s middle, were warm and steady. The afternoon went on. Somewhere out on the street a vendor passed, calling his two words; somewhere else, much farther, a motorbike. The bouquet on the kitchen counter—jasmine and heliotrope and the small coral-pink rose, the same arrangement for almost two years now, the one Nut had made the night before, the way he did every Sunday, without ever quite explaining why—sat in its jar in the kitchen, just visible from the balcony if you turned your head exactly right.
Hong did not turn his head. He stayed where he was.
He had, he thought, possibly all the resources in the world for as many Mondays as Nut wanted to give him. And many, many other days besides.
He drank his lemonade.
Nut, behind him, hummed something contented against the back of his shoulder.
It was, all things considered, an excellent Monday.
end.