Page 49 of Garbage

No, he wasn’t going to think about the sex, or his hands were going to end up on Evan’s cock. Or maybe he could use one hand to hold him down…

Quincy hadn’t quite had the confidence to use his other limbs, though they strained against his back, fighting to come out. He wanted to touch Evan in every way. Everywhere.

And he knew that Evan would support him. Evan had told him often enough.

But there was a difference between supporting and desiring, and Quincy wasn’t sure if he could bear seeing Evan flinch now. Mo had always flinched if they got close. He’d seen Ben step back a time or two, though that could have just been giving him space.

Quincy knew that when he hugged Evan with all his limbs, he got a little weird, his cheeks going pink and his voice strained.

When he’d used a hose to help open Quincy’s zipper, he’d jumped a little.

No, Quincy would have to work his way up to that one. Or maybe it would just never happen.

Could he be happy with that?

Ugh. This was so complicated. He needed to talk to Ben again.

But if Evan was his boyfriend, wouldn’t it all be worth it?

He took one last glance at Evan’s sleeping form. The moonlight kissed his face, and all Quincy could think about was kissing it, too. Tracing his lips down Evan’s delicate eyelids and the rough scratch of his stubble.

Because he could now!

Well, not now now.

Quincy wandered to the kitchen.

He needed to move. To completely distract himself from his maybe-probably-almost boyfriend. His body was buzzing with too much excitement to just sit still.

He wandered into the kitchen, which was when inspiration struck. He would make breakfast for Evan. Not just breakfast, a feast. All of Evan’s favorites and some new recipes that Quincy knew he would love.

It wouldn’t just be a meal, it would be a celebration. A love letter.

He put some music on his internal speakers and danced around the kitchen as he started the dough rising for fresh bread, then chopped potatoes to bake with garlic and rosemary. Ooh! And a frittata. He could make one with the cast iron skillet in the oven at the same time. And a salad? Or a fruit salad? Maybe both.

He whirled and shimmied through the kitchen, slicing and stirring and kneading. He even made little flower shapes with all the fruits, because Evan had told him it wasn’t worth the bother, but then he smiled and complimented Quincy when he made them anyway.

He ended up with a whole bouquet of fruit.

The last thing on the menu was a latte. He’d been a little shy the first time he’d tried it, because he was still worried that Evan would think his steam hose wasn’t clean. But he washed and sanitized it well every day, and Evan had been impressed that he could use it to froth the milk. Quincy could make the espresso with the French press, and he’d been watching tutorials on how to draw in the froth.

This morning he made a sleepy owl, then put a little heart over its head.

That was what this feeling was, right? Love? He’d looked up definitions in every dictionary and blog, read hundreds of excerpts from fiction and memoirs.

It was all of the happy bubbles that had ever tried to burst out of him, magnified by a thousand when he thought of Evan. It had to be.

He heard Evan’s alarm go off, and then some movement in the room. Quincy hoped that Evan would come find him, but he still felt warm inside when he glimpsed Evan, stunningly naked with his hair sticking out in adorable clumps, stumble into the bathroom.

Time to put everything on the table.

Evan emerged just as he finished, wrapped in a towel and dripping. Quincy wanted to touch. Quincy wanted to ravish him.

“Wow! Quincy you… you must have been cooking all night!”

“Just since five-thirty. Uh… I’m not very good at staying still.”

Evan smiled, showing the crooked little tooth on his left side, and Quincy’s pistons almost stopped. “I noticed. Let me go get dressed, and I’ll join you.”