I couldn't help it. I laughed. It was the most petulant thing a forty-year-old man had ever said to me.
"Aye, all right. Listen." I put my hand over his, the one at the back of my neck, and held it there. "When I have ye the first time, I dinnae want ye hiding behind a bottle. When I take ye apart, I want ye sober enough to know what's happening to ye. And when I'm done, I want ye to be able to admit ye liked it without ye being able to blame the vodka in the morning. Aye?"
His pupils went wider. His lips parted. He was already half-hard against my hip, and I could feel the breath catch in his chest where his arm was pressed to mine.
"Aye?" I said again, gentler.
"Yes."
"Good lad."
I let go of his hand. He stepped back, not well, his weight going onto his back foot and staying there a beat too long, and he caught himself on the edge of the table. I stood up. The shirt hung off me in two halves, the placket destroyed, buttons scattered over the table and the floor. I left it open.
He was still there, swaying, one hand on the table, looking at me like he'd lost something he hadn't noticed he'd been holding.
"Come on," I said.
"What?"
"Bed. Yer going to bed."
"I'm not..."
"Aye, ye are. Up ye get."
He was heavier than he looked. He looked broad, but he looked lean with it, and when I got an arm around his back to steer him, I found out the truth. He was dense and warm and solid against me, the muscle of his back working under my palm where I held him.
He kept stopping. Not because he couldn't walk. Because every two steps he wanted to say something, and the something kept not arriving. He'd stop, open his mouth, and close it. I'd push him on.
"Up ye get. Come on. Almost there."
"I didn't..."
"Aye, ye did. Keep walking."
"I wasn't going to..."
"I know. Keep walking."
We made it to the bedroom. I steered him to the edge of the bed, put a hand on his shoulder, and pushed. He sat down hard, his hands hanging between his knees, his head down.
I knelt and undid the laces of his shoes. Black derbies, the same pair I'd been disrespecting in his closet that morning. The laces were the same waxed cotton my da had used in the shop. Standard double bow, tied tight. I worked them loose, slipped the first shoe off, and set it next to the bed. Then I did the same with the second.
When I looked up, he was watching me, his eyes heavy and dark, his lips still wet.
I stood between his knees and reached for his tie. I loosened the knot the rest of the way, lifted it over his head, and laid it across the dresser. He hadn't taken his eyes off me. The flush was still on his throat.
"Coat," I said.
He didn't move. His eyes stayed on my lips.
"I'm going to take yer coat off. Aye?"
He nodded once slowly.
I worked the buttons of the coat open and pushed the lapels back. He shrugged out of it for me, his shoulders rolling under my hands, and the warmth of him came up through the wool when I lifted it off. I folded it over the chair.
The shirt next. I undid the cuffs first because that was how my da had taught me. The pulse in his right wrist was running hard.
