the anatomy of love [BxB] COMPLETED

41

When Jackson wakes up, he does not remember how he got in this unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room, the crisp white sheets tousled around his legs. There are clothes everywhere on the floor, so mixed up he can't tell which are his and which are of Wes. Then he smells bacon, of all things, and his stomach growls, followed by a pang in his head.

Last night's memories file into his mind quickly, and he cringes at his drunkenness, hoping he didn't say anything he might regret. There are some gaps. He doesn't remember much of the party, except Caleb and margaritas. He doesn't remember how he got to Wes's apartment, exactly, but he does remember the car and the night sky. Mostly he remembers the buttery toast, Wes's eyes staring far away, and a few Shakespeare quotes here and there, naturally. He remembers sleeping, just sleeping.

Jackson tosses the covers aside and gingerly gets out of bed. The wood is cool under his feet, and he can hear faint scraping and clinking in the kitchen. He pads softly out of the bedroom and stops.

Standing in front of the stove with a towel draped over his bare shoulder, Wes skillfully switches off between scrambling eggs in a pan, toasting bagels, and frying bacon.

"Wes." It's all he can manage. Wes does not turn around, although the muscles in his back tense when he speaks, like a snake that had been fully relaxed suddenly coils in the presence of danger.

"Good morning," Wes says, and his voice reminds Jackson of the velvety spread of butter on last night's toast. He stops cooking to momentarily turn his head and look at Jackson, and then down. "Cute."

He's wearing light blue boxers with small green dinosaurs on them. They remind him instantly of his complete helplessness in the last twenty-four hours. "I'm sorry about last night."

"You had every right to celebrate."

Wes now has his back to him once more, pulling the bagels out of the toaster and portioning out the eggs and bacon on top. He brings the two bagels on plates to a small table by the windows. After he sets them down, he gets two glasses of orange juice and stops halfway to the table when he notices Jackson frozen across the room.

"Are you not hungry?" Wes asks, and for the first time since Jackson has met him, there's a tinge, just a brief note really, of insecurity.

"No, I am." Jackson doesn't know how to put it in words, the way his mind stopped working the moment he saw Wes in the kitchen, making his breakfast, saying good morning like it was a typical Sunday together and they both have the day off. He doesn't know how to say that it reminds him of everything he could have and also everything he could just as easily lose. "I just..."

"You just?"

"I like this." Jackson smiles, but his heart aches. "I really like this."

Wes nods, slowly, setting down the cups. "Me too."

"Thank you for this."

"Breakfast? I was going to make it for myself anyway."

Jackson rolls his eyes, finally walking over to the table and snaking an arm around Wes, who raises an eyebrow at his eagerness.

"What? I got picked up on the curb at midnight by a gorgeous man and nothing happened. You owe me," Jackson says with a smirk.

"I owe you, huh?" Wes asks, the side of his mouth quirking up. "And how would you like me to repay you?"

Jackson ponders this dramatically, eyes roaming Wes's chest, the faint indents of the abdomen, the smooth swathes of naked skin that Jackson cannot stop fantasizing about, apparently even in his presence. He asks seriously, "How about a kiss?"