The rules seem almost insultingly basic. They seem obvious, like best practice when adulting or something. Hardly the sort of thing someone should need to write down. It’s hard to find fault with any of them individually. It’s just that when I view them as an ensemble, it strikes me that there seems to be a hell of a lot of them. I look down at the page and feel a mild flutter of concern.
Actually, you know what? No.
I’m not worried.
I’ve got this.
All these little rules are things other people do with no problem. Wyn’s been doing most of these things for me since we moved in together during our sophomore year of college, and he hardly ever complained. Hardly even seemed to notice. Just went about his day getting shit like this done without making a song and dance about it.
How hard can it be?
I’m just going to have to apply myself. I’ll do a few things around the house now and then and then kick back and chill like normal. Big fucking deal.
When you think about it, the joke’s on Stuart for taking this shit way too seriously. The only reason I don’t do this stuff is because I’ve never had to.
Hang your bag at the door. Please. Give me a break. I can do that in my sleep.
Stuart’s voice more or less maintains the same note the entire time he reads through the list. He pauses after each rule, waiting until I nod before moving on. He’s patient and earnest. I can hardly describe how seriously he’s taking this whole thing. When he’s done, he looks at me expectantly. His eyes are so intensely blue that I find it hard to look away from him. When I look into them, I get the same feeling I get back home on the beach, standing at the edge of the water, about to dive in.
The weirdness of this whole situation is starting to get to me, and I feel a terrible tightness in my lungs. The familiar twinges send a warning: severe giggling fit rapidly approaching. In a desperate attempt to stave it off, I start poking fun at the rules.
“So, I guess this means I’m golden as long as I have a smoothie for breakfast, huh? ‘Cause those are full of leafy greens, and you’re all about that, right?” Stuart looks at me without answering, so I up the ante. “And sure, let’s lock in a reasonable bedtime. I’m all for it. Twelve-thirty is totally reasonable for a twenty-four-year-old dude at the height of his slut era, isn’t it?”
Shit. Not sure why I said that.
Stuart’s never done a damn thing to give me the impression he has a sense of humor. I’m on the edge of hysterical laughter, and knowing that being like this makes me a loose cannon makes me panic even more. His lips stiffen, and before I have time to reconsider, I roll my eyes so hard the left one feels a little strained when I recenter them.
“Elliot, did you just roll your eyes at me?”
Oh crap!
“Yeah, b-but I haven’t technically agreed on the rules yet, so there’s nothing you can do about it. Boom!Lawyered!”
Stuart doesn’t answer. His top lip quirks up, and I can’t tell if he’s trying not to smile or suppressing the urge to bite me. He leans over, moves the first piece of paper closer to him, and scrawls something on it. When he hands it back to me, it reads:
Be respectful
Be considerate
Be obedient
AND NO SILLY BUGGERS!
I don’t know what that means exactly. It seems like a broad and vague category at best, but my lungs scream with the effort it takes to contain the giggle that’s bubbling up inside me.
Stuart Wiseman just used the word bugger.
What’s next, casually using the word ream in reference to widening the opening of a hole in a non-sexual manner? Dropping sodomy into the dinner conversation in a puritanical way?
The worst of it is, I have a feeling he’d probably think it’s perfectly acceptable—as long as we’re using the right fucking placemats and I’m eating my greens.
“…yellow to pause and discuss things and red to stop instantly…”
Hmm, Stuart seems to be schooling me on safe words. Safe words! The thought of it makes me overly aware of the fact that I should be using every ounce of my strength to let out my breath very, very slowly. I am completely positive that failure to do so will see that breath expelled from my body in the form of a very loud snort. It takes so much effort that my eyes feel too big for their sockets.
“And, Elliot, you should know you were wrong about me when you said I over-promise and under-deliver. As long as you’re under my roof and subject to this arrangement, you can set your clock by me. You can count on me as sure as you can count on the fact the sun rises in the morning and sets in the evening. You can bet everything you own on the fact that if I say I’ll do something, I’ll do it. Actions have consequences, and mark my words, I’ll deliver them.”
Like that, the laughter that’s been threatening to overtake me evaporates, and I’m left reeling.
