Snafu

Gift Bag - Part 1

Over the next week, Cole learned that he could tell by the strokes of Gideon's handwriting on his morning notes what type of mood he woke in and how he felt about facing the day. If it was careful and elegant, he had woken calm and confident. And if it was clipped and disjointed, sometimes with a letter of print thrown into his usual script, he felt harried the moment he stepped out of bed. Perhaps on those days he had an impending meeting, but often it was when he could not be home for dinner or would have blood stains on his cuffs when he arrived home in the early morning hours. Cole hoarded each of those notes in the front of Catch-22, which he kept on the bedside table to the right - his side - in the master bedroom.

He also learned that Gideon was the type of man who could never be left alone with his thoughts. His days were spent busy at work. He spent his nights busy with work. And in between, there was nearly always a book in his hands. Or Cole in his hands.

He never seemed to sit still with his own thoughts. The flip of a page always accompanied his presence on the rare occasion that he had downtime to do things like hang out beside the edge of the hot tub, where Cole floated atop the bubbles, still flabbergasted that it was large enough for him to stretch out in. The one at the community pool he went to as a kid was only half the size of this one.

When Cole did catch a glimpse of Gideon alone with his thoughts it was as he stood on the patio outside the bedroom smoking a cigarette, a deadened expression of mild distaste curling his lips as he stared out over the yard. Cole would quickly make himself busy so he would not feel like an interloper. There were obviously sides to him that Cole had not seen, but he rather liked to think he was becoming someone close to the man.

Other people surely knew that Gideon was moody and driven. People at his work might see his notes written on files or something and learn to read his handwriting like a mood ring. Certainly, there were others who knew far more about where he went at night and whose blood had been on his shirt that first and one other morning since.

But only Cole sat at home in the early morning hours, accompanied by the buzz of cicadas or the low murmur of the television, while waiting for Gideon to arrive home. The crunch of tires, the car door, the front door, his footsteps down the hall, through the study – or sometimes the great room – and into his bedroom. He took a shower that lasted nearly thirty minutes every night even though he must have been exhausted at that point.

And only Cole knew what he was like in bed – not just how he was in a hotel room where he paid for the evening, but how he was night after night. They'd had sex enough times now for Cole to begin teasing out some patterns. Each time they finished, an undercurrent of urgent need to make sure Cole was okay flowed beneath his easy affections and light mood. It made Cole feel comfortable and made his heart clench.

Because so much of what he did seemed wholly focused on Cole – from this hyperfocus on his well-being instead of enjoying the afterglow as their heartbeats frantically worked to slow to the way he came home as silently as he could manage in the early mornings because Cole now slept in his bed.

It made Cole feel guilty enough that he asked Gideon if he would rather Cole sleep upstairs on the nights that he would be home late so that he would not have to worry about making noise when he was clearly so exhausted. Gideon just assured him that being able to climb into bed next to Cole made the extra effort of being quiet worth it. So, Cole started falling asleep on the couch while waiting for him, then Gideon would have to wake him up anyway to take him to bed and didn't have to worry about making noise.

Only Cole remained alone in this big mansion day after day, knowing that Gideon barely ever returned here to be among his carefully curated books, art, and peace. Just like he hardly ever sat alone with his thoughts. Well, him and the staff.