Things have been rough. I wrote a tiny thing last night and it’s not actually a real story, but I don’t know what else to do with it given LJ is a wasteland, even thought it’s 200 words longer than my tumblr-words limit.
Erik is channel surfing and seriously thinking about the beer in the refrigerator, though still lacking the motivation to stand up and get it. Charles is out having a drink with Moira, and Erik has nothing pressing to do and nowhere pressing to be, which means he’s not really moved since he got home from work.
There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s nice to have a relaxing night in once in awhile.
He’s just about worked up the energy to hunt down that beer, when there’s a gentle burst of awareness in his mind, a spreading warmth, like stepping into the bath.
Hey, are you home? he asks, pushing himself to his feet.
No, Charles replies. I’m down at the park. The image appears in his mind seamlessly, snatched right from his memory, a mental snapshot of a baseball diamond and a gazebo. You should come down here.
Why? Erik asks. He opens the fridge and thinks about whether he wants a snack to go with his beer.
Because I want you to, Charles says. Because I love you, and I want you to, and you love me, and you’re already bored and wishing I was there to distract you.
All true. He wonders if Charles is tipsy enough to get sloppily affectionate, tactile and soppy and prone to stealing kisses.
I am, Charles says. Come to the park. And bring a snack! I’m hungry.
Not your waiter, Erik says, even as he takes the bag of grapes from the fridge and summons his keys and phone from the other room. I’ll be there in ten minutes.
It’s a nice walk to the park. They’re in that nebulous part of June where it’s 90 one day and 70 the next, and the evening is cool with a slight breeze. Warm enough that Erik doesn’t need a jacket, but not hot enough to sweat, even when he lazily jogs the last couple blocks. It’s just past seven and the sun is beginning its descent as he spies Charles lying on the grass. His head is pillowed on his discarded cardigan. He sits up as Erik approaches, and waves. Erik feels silly waving back, but that doesn’t stop him.
“You brought me grapes!” Charles says as Erik crouches down and then sits next to Charles in the grass. Charles’ smile is a little sloppy around the edges. Still plenty tipsy, then.
“They’re your grapes,” Erik says. “I just took them out of the fridge.”
“Still,” Charles says, and leans over to kiss Erik in greeting. He tastes a little bit like beer, and Erik steals a second kiss before Charles can properly pull away.
“What’s up, baby?” Erik asks. Charles makes a face at him at the endearment, but kisses Erik again and then leans against him.
“Nothing,” Charles says. “It’s just so beautiful. The light and the temperature and the breeze and the air. And I was walking by the park and smelled the grass and I thought, ‘This is a beautiful, perfect night. This is the sort of night people write stories about. The only way it could get better would be if Erik was here.’” He smiles up at Erik, a reminder of half a dozen things that Erik loves—the curve of Charles’ mouth, the color of his eyes, the freckles that are more prominent as they transition into summer, and, above all else, the fact that, when presented with a perfect evening, Charles’ first thought was to find him.
“I’m here now,” Erik says. He slides his arms around Charles’ waist, a loose embrace, heedless of the other people taking advantage of the perfect weather—a woman walking her dog, a father pushing a baby carriage, a pair of children laughing as they run around the baseball diamond.
“You are,” Charles says. He turns his head to rub his nose against Erik’s evening stubble. “And you brought grapes.”
“You’re a cheap date,” Erik says.
“I’m a cheap date?” Charles asks. “You’re the one who came all the way out here without explanation.”
“Well, it was either you or Law and Order reruns, so,” Erik says.
“Oh, shut up,” Charles murmurs, and cuts off the conversation with another kiss as the sun continues to sink past the horizon line.