Knickers

Thoroughly Buttered

We return to my apartment for reasons that are beyond me. He swears up and down it's because he likes my decorating.
The place is severely neglected from nearly a week of moping. The bed is a disaster and my clothing is strewn about, but he pays no mind at all. He struts in and gives a little twirl in the middle of the floor, flinging off his sweatshirt that he had replaced for the sake of the walk from the car, an insistence to which I had objected.
"I'm really rethinking my decor," he says. "I need a sign like that one."
I reach up to dust off my neon light. "I got it off Etsy."
"Tom thinks I'm an idiot," he says, plopping onto my bed and fiddling with my bedside night light. "That's cute. Etsy also?"
"Etsy, yeah. Why's Tom think you're an idiot?"
"For inviting you out and then meeting another girl in the bathroom. Proper bad move." He reaches out for both my hands and squeezes my palms. "Can you forgive me?"
"You've really got no reason to apologize," I tell him, letting myself be pulled down onto his lap. "Well, not for that reason, anyway."
A frown comes to rest on his lips. "Have I got something else to apologize for?"
"Yeah, fucker, you absolutely broke me. I had so much game before I met you."
He quirks an eyebrow. "Game?"
"I don't do crushes, you know. I did serial one night stands." I pause, thinking back to what's-his-face from Warped Tour. "The last time I made any real attempt to get some was the day I met you, and it flopped."
"You mean the guy who told you to steal my underpants?"
"That's him," I say. "I spent all day buttering him up, with no reward."
"Well," he says, with his usual wide grin, dragging his finger along my bra strap. "I'm thoroughly buttered."
As if on instinct, I dive forward to kiss him, to initiate the undressing, but it feels all wrong. I try to ignore it for a minute, try to drown out the insecurity with images of him naked, but I can't ignore the twisted feeling.
"Fuck," I hiss, pulling away.
"What?"
"My body is rejecting this," I tell him, scraping my hair back. "I'm not treating you like a hookup, okay?"
"You're not," he says softly,  running both hands along my thighs.
"You're special," I continue. "Very special. All I've thought about recently is you. I started to write romance scripts because of you. You have been in my dreams. I have a mental list of all my favorite places that I would like to show you."
Both his arms wrap around me, pressing us together in tight reassurance. "You must be a hopeless romantic."
"Not for anyone but you," I tell him. "I'll make you dinner and put on your favorite movie, and I want you to ramble about the symbolism. Then I'll give you a massage and ask about your wildest dreams and I'll reciprocate with a heartfelt confession of my insecurities. And then we'll sleep, and wake up, and for once I won't be counting the minutes until I'm alone again."
He offers no words in return, only softening his smile and nuzzling his forehead into my shoulder. Then he releases me to start on our noodles.
We're halfway through "10 Things I Hate About You" when Dom lowers his empty bowl and stands up.
"I'm restless," he says. "Let's do something."
"ADHD?"
"It's bugging me, man," he says, and without any hesitation I follow him to the door, stomping into my shoes and starting toward the stairs.
The street is well lit with street lamps, casting bubbles of light onto the sidewalk, between which Dom and I linger in the darkness and steal kisses. Without the immediate presence of sex I am not the best at physical contact, but this feels admittedly easy. There is effortless hand holding and cheek squishing and pocket invading. We jaywalk diagonally through an intersection and stop outside a hookah lounge, alive with people and clouded with smoke.
"You smoke?" he asks.
"Occasionally."
We continue down the street once more, the smell of tobacco following us to the end of the block.
"What's the best thing about being Yungblud?" I ask him.
"The community," he says immediately. "The fans. The people. I'd be lost without them."
"What would you be if you didn't make it as a musician?"
"Dead," he tells me, and doesn't explain.
"Like...starving?"
"Well, if I didn't off myself first." He grimaces, pulling me closer and hooking an arm around my neck.
"Yeah, we were all a bit too emo for our own good," I agree. "I developed my alcohol problem early. Thirteen."
"Thirteen?" he repeats thoughtfully. "That's when I started smoking."
"Funny how corruption happens early." I pause. "That's also when I lost my virginity."
"Jesus. Really?"
"Unfortunately so. It was a stupid act of rebellion."
"Think you and I have been carrying around a little extra damage," he says. "Though nights like this one seem to mend the wounds."
"I find anywhere quiet and dark has that effect," I say, nodding, crossing alongside him through another intersection.
"Thirteen," he says again softly, pensively. Then, after a long pause, "Let's go cuddle."
And we do.