He’s still eager to take care of Trevor, but it’s not until now that he’s felt sure Trevor still wants to take care of him too.
Even though it’s been two days and Trevor hasn’t kissed him again.
But something’s shifted between them since that glorious moment in the elevator. He can feel it in the way Trevor looks at him with the softest eyes. In the way he touches him like he’s made of porcelain, like he’s a precious gift to be protected. A hand on his lower back, sure and steady, guiding him as they walk together. Arms wrapped tight around him as they go to sleep, holding Skyler’s body against his.
Trevor offers to get up and make them coffee when Skyler’s reluctant to get out of bed in the morning. He does Skyler’s laundry with his own. Basically, he’s acting like he did when they were together—only minus anything sexual.
And it’s not that Skyler only wants sex from him. No. He fucking loves all the other stuff, revels in the easy displays of affection. But he can’t help but suspect that Trevor is still unsure somehow, still holding back.
He could be the one to kiss Trevor, could initiate something now after he made Trevor take that first step. But he wants Trevor to do it again. Just to be sure. Because he can’t handle the hesitation, the moving forward a bit only to stall out again. If they’re going to do this, for real, they both need to be in it one thousand percent. He can only give Trevor everything if Trevor’s willing to give everything back to him.
When Trevor finishes the topcoat on Skyler’s second hand and carefully brings it up to his mouth to place a kiss on each of Skyler’s knuckles, Skyler almost breaks. He almost leaps forward and crawls into Trevor’s lap to kiss him.
But he doesn’t. Mostly because he needs Trevor to make the decision, and partly because he’d mess up the nails that Trevor spent so much time on.
He takes a moment to admire his nails and smiles. A lot of the clothes he wears now—the crazy outfits he picks out for his shows and appearances—are things he likes, sure, but they're not things he’d casually wear at home. The nails, though, aren’t only for the stage. He likes having them painted all the time. They make him feel good about himself.
And Trevor helped him find that. Trevor never made him feel weird or bad for liking what he liked.
“Thank you,” he says, for more than the task Trevor just completed.
“Anytime,” Trevor says.
Skyler needs to wait a while for his nails to dry before he can do anything, so he asks Trevor, “Will you read to me?”
“Read what?”
“Anything. I know you borrowed some books from Layla.”
Trevor’s been keeping himself occupied by reading while Skyler works on his music, sometimes on the couch, and sometimes at the park down the block.
“They’re murder mysteries,” Trevor says. “Not the highbrow literary stuff you like.”
“Hey! Don’t make me sound like a book snob. I like all sorts of stuff.”
“Sure you do.”
Skyler pouts and says, “Okay, rude.” But he likes that Trevor’s teasing him. It’s good they’ve gotten past that stage of awkward politeness. Good they can be themselves now.
Trevor smiles. “Sure, I’ll read to you.”
While Trevor goes to grab a book, Skyler makes himself comfortable on the couch, angling against one arm with his feet up on the cushions, knees bent. But when Trevor returns, rather than taking a seat at the opposite end by Skyler’s feet, he goes right over to Skyler and lifts his head up.
“Scoot down a bit.”
He complies, Trevor bracing his upper body as he shimmies his butt to make more room, and then Trevor sits in the spot he left, gently guiding Skyler’s head down into his lap. Skyler just barely manages to hold back a sigh of contentment as Trevor begins lightly scratching his scalp with one hand.
Trevor keeps up the treatment while he reads, holding the paperback open in his other hand. His voice washes over Skyler, slow and rhythmic, and Skyler could easily fall asleep like this, except for the fact that he doesn’t want to miss a moment of it.
He’s seriously not a book snob, but to annoy Trevor and amuse himself, he decides to proclaim that every character introduced is the killer. About ten pages in, he must have said it as many times already.
When he tries to implicate the random clerk at a gas station, Trevor’s patience wears out. “If you don’t shut up, I’m going to tickle you.”
“No, you’re not. That could mess up my nails.”
“I think they’re dry by now.”
“You don’t know for sure,” he argues.
