“It is good. Really good. And my favorite. Man, I’m going to miss her cooking when I go to Montreal.” I’m going to miss you when you go to Montreal.
I scold myself for the thought. It’s far too soon into our acquaintance for such foolish things.
“Right, well I’ll go chuck this in the microwave. Make yourself at home.”
Scurrying to the kitchen, I peel off the tinfoil and pop it in the trash, take out some plates and cutlery, and line them up on the counter. Cory ate his body weight in pasta at that little Italian place, and I’m fairly certain he could polish most of this off himself. With that I give him the lion’s share, and Dylan—who is still happy squealing—gets a fair chunk, too. Since I’m suddenly all floppy in the stomach, I take what’s left. Probably best not to feed those butterflies that have taken flight in there.
“Make sure you thank your mom for me,” I call. “It was a lovely thing to do for strangers.”
“You’re hardly strangers. I’ve told her all about you and your magic hands. Any details I left out, Cherry made up.”
He talked about me to his mom?
At this point, I could probably use my rapidly rising body heat to warm the food and get it done quicker and without the added radiation.Calm the fuck down.It’s a concept easier said than done, because fuck oysters. Having Cory in my family home. Hearing the obscenely stunning man with stunning slutty little glasses that I’m unfairly attracted to, being so natural and kind with my brother, telling his mom about me, is surely the most potent aphrodisiac in human existence.
I’m pleasantly full,maybe a little tipsy too after polishing off an incredible South Australian Red. Dylan has more creamy white sauce on his face then is currently digesting in his stomach, and Cory. Well, Cory is freaking adorable.
Better add me being a little bit of a goner to tipsy.
Right now, Cory’s with Dyl in his room, sitting on the edge of the bed as Dylan smooths his fingers over his face in swirling, swoopy motions. Dad always said touch was Dylan’s love language, and this routine had been in place since Dyl was a kid. The tradition has passed down to me or Faith since his death, but it’s a strict family thing. Never have I seen him touch any of his support staff like this. Not even his favorite Manny.
Humming gently as he goes, he traces the line of Cory’s chin, then up and over his cheekbones, nose then circles his eyes. A multitude of emotions churn inside me. Grief being the least pleasant. I miss my dad. Like, a lot.
My first reaction to this scene was to call him over and give him shit with something along the lines of, “Get a load of this, Old man. You’ve been replaced with a younger model.” Then I remember. With the rampant change that’s transpired over the last few months, moments like these fracture the shell of denial I’ve crafted around me. Piece after piece has fallen away. I’m doing my best to hold the remainder together, but I’m struggling, and I don’t know if I’m ready to face the world without its protection.
Alongside the grief, sits resentment. Not for dad or Dylan, or Cory. But for ASD.
At times like this, I fucking hate the autism that makes my life uncomfortable, and awkward, but traps and locks away so many parts of my brother. When I was first diagnosed, I can remember well meaning therapists telling me it and the obsessive tendencies that sometimes crippled me, were my superpower.
What a fucking joke.
I didn’t want a super power. I wanted to feel normal. To not get stuck on the same things for hours, or freak out in class when I was overstimulated, or not have a total breakdown if my teacher was away and we had a sub. I was tired of being the only kid in class not invited to parties. Even with all that, at least I could somewhat express what was happening or what had upset me. Dyl can’t even do that.
I’m desperate to know what his thought process is as he traces the lines of Cory’s cute upturned nose. Why this? Why the face? As far as we know he has no vision issues, but maybe he does. Is this his way of studying features he can’t fully make out? Is it sensory? Does he enjoy the soft skin versus the hard bone structure, or is it completely random? Did he just do it one night, find some kind of comfort, so it became another of the many idiosyncrasies that make Dyl, Dyl?
Maybe one day I will, but for now, it’s added to the mysteries of Dylan list, and I try to stop analyzing and focus more on the innocence of the moment. Something made easier when Dyl finds a ticklish spot on Cory’s neck, just below his ear. Eyes crinkled as he squirms, the rough and tumble hockey player reduced to a giggling, squirming mess that has me thinking things I really shouldn’t.
Like my feet have taken root in the timber floor, I stand watch unable to look away until Dylan can no longer blink away his sleepiness. Hands dropping to the sheets, he tucks them neatly beneath his pillow and his eyes fall closed. Even then Cory remains by his side, waiting until Dyl’s breathing slows and evens out before whispering, “Good night, Dyl.”
It’s so bloody sweet I swear I can hear my heart sigh.
Visions of this very scene becoming a daily occurrence meet a hasty end when Cory, misty-eyed, and back lit by a nightlight, turns and smiles. He’s so fucking beautiful it hurts to look at him.He’s also on the team.I remind myself, while simultaneously making a mental note of that ticklish spot, just in case things should ever change between us.
They won’t, though. They can’t.
But a guy can dream.
Lost in thought, I don’t notice Cubby stand and walk my way, but I do feel the press of his body against mine. There was no reason for me to, though. Yes I’m currently leaning against the door frame, blocking his exit. But no. He did not have to slide into the space between me and the timber, showcasing the height and weight difference that keeps me awake at night. Nor did he have to look up at me through his lashes. Lashes that are beaded with moisture.
“That was amazing,” he whispers, wiping the threatening tears with the back of his hand, “does he always do that? If felt like … sacred. Like a blessing almost.” Even in the dim light, I see the blush color his face. “God, that sounds so corny.”
Before I can stop it, the one hand I can move decides to move in his direction, cupping his jaw, and wiping the one stray tear rolling down his cheek. “It doesn’t sound corny. It is a blessing of sorts. Dylan touching you like that means he loves you.”
Rising to his tip toes, Cory leans into the warmth of my palm. It’s overwhelming, the desire I feel to wrap him up in my arms. To drop my head, to allow my lips to find his. To taste him. To make him mine.
Glasses fogging a little, he takes a stuttering breath. “And what does you touching me likethissay?”
“It says I understand where Dylan is coming from. And that for now, maybe I need to leave it at that.”
