You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy when skies are grey...
“That’s a sad song, James...”
Hartley’s sock clad feet were quiet against the tiled floor of the kitchen. He yawned and hovered by the coffee maker until the pot had filled enough for a cup. After pouring, he pushed the pot back into place and allowed the rest of the coffee to slowly trickle into it. Both hands cupped the brightly colored mug- James’ mug. After taking a sip, he set down the cup on the surface of the counter and moved to the cookie jar.
“We’re almost out of biscuits.” Hartley said, plucking three of the thin sugar cookies from the jar. He replaced the head of the pink monster jar and trailed his fingers across its goofy grin. Sitting at the stool pushed against the island in the center of the room, he sipped his coffee and ate the three cookies. James sat on the edge of the counter, swinging his legs, sipping at cocoa from a mug fashioned into the head of a cartoon fox. He was so close; Hartley didn’t allow himself to brush fingers against his acrobat’s thigh.
After breakfast, he brushed his teeth and showered before drifting back into the living room. A few rats scurried over the mound of blankets and pillows as he dropped down among them. He rested there a moment before turning his head and pressing his face into a bright pillow with polka dots. Eyes closing, he took in a deep breath of Old Spice. The scent was beginning to fade.
Sitting up, he turned on the television and pulled up Netflix. “What should we watch today?” James was beside him, feet propped up on the pillows, head on the blankets by Hartley’s feet, and his head turned away. It was difficult to keep from stroking back the sleep ruffled blonde and pink hair; Hartley busied himself with the remote. “Gordon Ramsay, I think. He’s your favorite.”
The morning was spent listening to an angry British man ranting and cursing. He might have remained there, watching but not watching, if James had not risen from the pillows and walked into the kitchen.
“The leftovers are almost gone...,” Hartley stared into the refrigerator before pulling out a small portion of spaghetti and meatballs. The shelves inside were nearly bare. He ate in silence while James stretched, extending his legs, arching his back forward, grasping his toes and ankles. “What am I going to do when they’re gone?” Hartley’s voice was quiet. James kept his head turned away and said nothing.
The afternoon passed into evening. Dinner came and went; Hartley didn’t eat the last portion of pasta. Instead, he crawled into bed. It seemed to take a lifetime, but at some point he must have slept because he awoke to slow kisses pressed against his chin, his jaw, the pulse point of his throat. He was somewhat ashamed of the small noise that escaped his lips. “James...” The warm, soft mouth caught his lower lip; teeth scraped the tender flesh. Their tongues twined together in a dance they both knew by heart.
The end of James’ nose brushed against Hartley’s. He gave a soft hum and murmured. “Hartley...”
Hartley stared at the ceiling, his hands trembling as they tightened into white knuckled fists against the cold bed sheets. He tilted his head and watched James step away. Just as James reached the door, he turned back and smiled through dried smears of blood. Look what they did to your face...
Hartley, don’t forget to change your batteries.
I love you, babe.
MERRY CHRISTMAS, @fiftyguilders !
Some people have a recorded message that plays when they need to change the batteries on their hearing aids. So we had talked about WHAT IF JAMES RECORDED A MESSAGE ON HARTLEY’S HEARING AIDS AND THE MESSAGE PLAYED AFTER JAMES DIED? I was supposed to write a fluffy thing for Christmas. Oopsy.
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