“Yeah, you too, baby,” Aaron said.
His lips curled but the blue of his eyes was a starless sky. Oscar told himself the camera obscured Aaron’s joy. But it kept him up until two in the morning, and Papa wasn’t here to whisper reassurance, so Oscar had to live with the brewing fear that wouldn’t let him go.
22
WATSON, CRICK, AND ALL THAT JAZZ
Oscar had never been more grateful to be able to study from the comfort of his kitchen. The bus seemed as done with the voyage as he felt, puffing out its exhaustion as the middle doors swung open, allowing him out.
Aaron had texted to let him know he wouldn’t be at the bus stop because he had to take care of dinner. Oscar had pretended to be okay with it, but he hated that when the doors closed behind him and the bus drove away, he was standing in front of an empty bus shelter, gazing at a printed timetable with colorful route lines instead of the dropped pins of his destiny across Aaron’s freckled cheeks.
Maybe his mother lived in him, too, in this small part of him that stamped its feet and demanded attention when it was already being given. As though Aaron hadn’t been slaving away for hours to make him a welcome home dinner.
Oscar tore the disappointment off his expression as he walked the short distance to their building and started making his way up. The landing on his floor was flooded with the scent of garlic and wine, and Oscar turned into the GoldenRetriever Aaron had once told Gemma he was, salivating and slobbering all the way to the door.
His key had barely turned when it opened. Oscar fell into Aaron’s arms, kicking the door behind him, and for a moment wished there was no dinner, that they could disappear into his bedroom and make up for every night they’d spent apart. Instead, Oscar pulled away and looked into his face, drew in the scent of his blueberry shampoo, the fresh soap on his skin, washing away the evidence of a day spent at work.
“Hi,” Aaron said, leaning in to kiss him on the lips.
“Hi,” Oscar replied.
He raised a hand to cup Aaron’s cheek, brushing his fluffy bangs with the tips of his fingers. How was this a man he hadn’t even known a year prior? As they stood in front of each other now, he seemed to Oscar like someone forever known, a line of code that had been written into his firmware, double slashed and greyed out for years, invisible on the dark mode background of Oscar’s past, until the fated moment during which their paths had collided and he’d flashed to life like he’d always been there.
Maybe this was why it was nakedly evident that something was amiss in his gaze. Oscar registered the twitch in his own expression as the familiar feeling of overwhelm flooded his chest, rising to choke him and heating his skin.
“I have to go plate up,” Aaron said a little too quickly.
He didn’t give Oscar a chance to respond, turning on his heel and dashing away to the kitchen. It left Oscar with Luigi and a million questions, but for the time being, he would focus on the cat rubbing against his shin for attention.
“Hey, bud,” he said, bending down to rub the fur between his ears. “Missed you too.”
Luigi trilled his agreement.
Dinner was delicious. Even though he’d been at work until five in the evening, Aaron had managed to put together a beautiful plate of tender garlic chicken, sautéed mushrooms, and crispy roast potatoes with soft buttery centers.
It would have been perfect. It should have been.
Aaron had sat Oscar down and put his food in front of him, poured him his diet soda, asked him about the journey home.
It should have felt great.
But how could it? Aaron kept playing with his food, cutting up his chicken and barely touching any of it, not even finishing his favorite part: the roast potatoes.
Oscar told him about the bus trip home, about his phone call with Grandma early that morning before he’d left his room, about being anxious to receive his results and find out whether he’d get these credits added to his transcript.
But if Oscar wanted to be honest, he couldn’t care less about his transcript or even about the exams he’d just taken. Aaron looked like he was crumbling. Like he already had while Oscar wasn’t looking.
“I’ll make some hot chocolate,” Aaron said when Oscar finally put down his cutlery.
“No, I will. You’ve been cooking all afternoon.”
Oscar made to get up, grabbing his plate as he went, but Aaron beat him to it, standing so quickly he banged his thigh into the corner of the table. Tears jerked out of his eyes as the pain registered, followed by a string of curses, foreign on his mouth, but nothing he said was ever ugly, and evenshitsounded like music when he said it.
“Please. Just let me, okay?” he muttered.
Oscar would have argued on any other night, butsomething of Papa told him not to. He’d left him with a cipher, it seemed, able to read the desperation in Aaron’s eyes, the need todosomething evident in his jittery fingers as he grabbed their plates and stacked their cutlery on top of them, heading to the kitchen without another word.
Maybe Oscar had done something,saidsomething, over his time away from home. Everything had been great between them when he’d left. Oscar remembered kissing Aaron over and over again at the bus stop, lingering until he nearly missed his ride, pictures of cookies baked in secret, quizzes over their video calls. Had he asked too much of him?
