Oscar smoothed his jeans, tugging at his T-shirt, even though he didn’t need to do that anymore, but he supposed muscle memory was a thing, and he’d hated having a chest longer than he’d spent without one.
It was warm outside, the sun yellowing the pretty paving, a cloudless azure sky blessing the crowd that had ventured out looking for fresh produce on this fine summer morning.
Oscar hadn’t been to the farmers’ market in a long, long time. When he’d first moved to his side of town, he hadn’t really been able to afford anything other than the ugly discount fruits and vegetables in Paulie’s crate beside the door, so most of his fiber had come from packaged things that went in the freezer. When Oscar finallycouldafford something like a real apple, he’d fallen into the habit of lazy Saturdays in, rotting in front of video games and eating candy. The last time he had come here was with Grandma, and that had been a good few years before.
Now Oscar was standing on the corner, by the wonky streetlamp where they’d agreed to meet, studying the many heads of hair for a tinge of fire.
“Hello.”
Oscar whirled quickly enough to quite nearly fall but didn’t, as a hand reached out to steady him. Instead, he tripped on his own tongue. Aaron in blue was something else, his eyes putting the sky to shame, his hair—which seemed togrow at supersonic speed—fluffy and soft-looking, bangs brushing his brow.
“Hello,” Oscar finally said.
Aaron had promised they’d find excellent deals on bell peppers and only the nicest berries, hand-picked by some of the people who set up stalls every Saturday in this lovely corner of their town. It wasn’t too far from the cathedral, looming massive and white in the background. No wonder Aaron knew all about what to expect.
“Ooh, coffee!” Aaron dragged Oscar to a cart selling fresh cups, and Oscar got to watch him bloom like a flower in spring as he tasted it. God, he’d turn into abeanif he could.
They never agreed to go home together, but Aaron got on the bus with him, and they used half the produce to make dinner, played games until it was late, and had more of the fancy coffee Oscar had bought for him.
He saw him every day the following week, and on Saturday, he didn’t need the phone call. Oscar was already up and dressed, ready to meet Aaron at the stalls again.
On the third weekend, the sky was painted an ominous shade of blackening grey, the spires on the bell towers poking the sky, begging rain.
By the time Aaron arrived, it had started to drizzle. His eyes shot from the stalls starting to dismantle to Oscar’s face, mouth twisting, and Oscar wondered whether Aaron was as terrified as he was that the day would suddenly be canceled. He’d see him again the next day and the one after that, but Saturday wasn’t Saturday anymore without their mornings, and an hour was equivalent to seven without Aaron.
“Pancakes?” Oscar murmured.
“And coffee,” Aaron replied.
Oscar wanted to kiss each dimple as it formed, but they hadn’t yet, and he wasn’t about to rush him. Maybe Aaron didn’t like kissing. Maybe he would never touch him.
As much as Oscar yearned for it, he could live with that.
He could die happy eating dinner, playing games, and watching Aaron drink his coffee.
More than anything, he could live. For the first time in his life, Oscar wanted it.
They got on the bus together, and Oscar didn’t look out of the window and pretend to be in a music video. Life was better than the music videos now because Aaron was in it, with his reddish brown hair and those glasses and the freckles on the backs of his hands, which were brushing against Oscar’s thigh.
It was a wonder Oscar didn’t self-combust, but somehow, he contained himself. They ran from the bus stop and straight into the coffee house, sheltering from the heavy downpour. Aaron turned around, giggling, hair plastered to his forehead. He reached out a hand, eyes darting down to Oscar’s fingers, then up to his face.
Oscar nodded, as though Aaron had asked a question, and slipped his hand in Aaron’s waiting palm. He wished the walk to their booth would never end, that he could stretch it out forever and hold Aaron’s hand until his own was dust.
But eventually they found a spot and sat opposite each other.
There was no produce that afternoon, but Oscar sat and listened to stories about Tobe and Marta, about her taking Aaron to get his first haircut when he was ready to come out, and they had pancakes with too much syrup and a whole pot of coffee, and outside the rain poured and poured and poured.
“Joe asked if you wanted to go to the gym this week. It’s pretty quiet because everyone’s on holiday,” Aaron said in betweenbites of his chicken. It was a Wednesday, and Oscar had to work a little longer after this because he’d spent the morning registering for the semester.
“Uh, yeah. Tomorrow?”
Tomorrow came, and with it the dread of dressing for the gym and getting on a treadmill. Oscar had always hated having eyes on him, but gyms were the worst for this sort of thing, and as he approached the ugly building with its blackened corners and white paint chipping off, he could only hope Joe hadn’t been exaggerating about it being quiet.
“Oz!” As though they’d known each other a thousand and one years. Joe jogged in his direction, his thighs like a body-shaming ad for the Greek gods, thick and sculpted in his shorts, pecs carving lines into his tight performance T-shirt. “Looking good, man.”
But at least Joe never called himbud. Oscar had seen him a couple more times when Aaron had been working closer to his own apartment and Oscar had offered to go there instead, but he and Joe hadn’t spent much time together.
“Doubtful,” Oscar said, scratching his head as an awkward laugh slipped out of him.
