HELLO!!! 14 or 21, if either of those speak to you???
HELLO!!! Loved both of these...tried to incorporate both:
14. being calmed by the familiar feeling of the other's body molding into theirs & 21. cuddles without doing anything else even though they have a bunch of things to do
“Are you hiding out in here?” BJ said.
Hawkeye was sprawled, arms and legs out like a starfish, on their bed. He was wearing a pair of borrowed (stolen) running shorts, a sweaty t-shirt, and his tennis shoes, which were hanging off of the mattress.
He poked his head up to look at BJ, standing in the doorway.
“I don’t know where she gets all that energy from,” Hawkeye said: hushed, as if Erin could hear downstairs.
She had the radio on, full blast, and just before BJ wandered off in search of Hawk, she’d been reorganizing the piles of toys she was keeping and the toys she was labeling with a rainbow assortment of price stickers, for the garage sale.
“She’s 13,” BJ said.
“She accused me of being a hoarder,” Hawkeye said.
“She’s going through a minimalist phase. It’ll pass,” BJ said.
Peg had enlisted Erin’s help in her spring cleaning endeavors, which had culminated in Erin’s first Mill Valley garage sale. Erin was always eager to assist, particularly with projects that allowed her to organize things or order people around. She liked taking money and making change. She liked selling fresh squeezed, super sour, best in town (her words) lemonade and making bargains and trades with her old baby dolls and jump ropes and clothes she’d outgrown.
When they’d picked her up at the airport, for her summer visit, she’d recounted her escapades as a young entrepreneur and organizational savant with such animation, that BJ had agreed to let her host another sale at their house in Maine. He hadn’t thought about how much stuff they had and how many boxes and trash bags and superfluous pieces of furniture Erin would want to drag out onto the lawn and pepper with price tags.
Hawk wiggled to the right and patted the space beside him.
“You don’t think I’m a hoarder, do you?” Hawkeye said, as BJ stretched out beside him.
Hawkeye rolled on his side and pressed up against him, slinging one arm over BJ’s chest. He was warm, and still a little breathless. They fit together the way they always did: Hawkeye’s stomach flush with BJ’s ribs, his ankle hooked around BJ’s, his chin tucked over BJ’s shoulder, his eyes closed, and his nose pressed to the side of BJ’s neck.
“I think you—have an exceptional eye for knick knacks,” BJ said.
“Useless knick knacks, that I hoard,” Hawkeye said.
“Don’t blame yourself. Knick knacks aren’t known for their utility,” BJ said.
Hawkeye laughed. This, too, was familiar: the buzzing, exultant, vibration of the sound. BJ laughed too, at his own joke. It was a chain reaction. It always was, when they were lying like this.
“Those salt and pepper shakers shaped like teddy bears are useful, and charming,” Hawkeye said.
They’d found them antiquing. Hawk said they reminded him of Radar. He’d carried them around the shop for half an hour, while they’d browsed.
“Don’t tell me she wants to get rid of those,” BJ said.
Hawkeye pressed closer and kissed the underside of BJ’s jaw.
“She’s still working on the living room. I steered her away from the kitchen while you were going through all the crap in the garage,” he said.
“Oh, so the kitchen’s got all the treasures and the garage is full of my crap?” BJ said.
“Our crap,” Hawkeye said.
“Our crap,” BJ said, grinning.
He could hear Erin downstairs, singing along to a Buddy Holly song at the top of her lungs. She’d wear herself out soon, he knew, and ask if they could go out for ice cream.
“I can talk to her, get her to tone it down a little. She gets very passionate about her projects,” BJ said.
“I love that about her. She gets that from you,” Hawkeye muttered: drowsy, muffled against BJ’s collarbone.
“I’m just saying you shouldn’t let her talk you into parting with things you don’t want to part with. She’s a reasonable kid,” BJ said.
A long pause.
“Hawk? You awake?”
Hawkeye hummed. BJ looked down at the top of his head. He studied the sweat-damp tangle of his dark hair, streaked with silver.
“A little decluttering is probably a good thing. I don’t have to hang onto everything for dear life anymore,” Hawkeye said. He relaxed his grip around BJ’s middle.
“That’s true. We’re sticking together, you and I. So’s our stuff,” BJ said.
“Our stuff,” Hawkeye said. He tipped his head back and looked up at BJ. “I like that it’s our stuff,” he said, voice soft.
There had been a time when there were very few objects by which BJ could remember Hawkeye. There had been a time when they were across the country from each other, and everything that belonged to the both of them, together, was stuffed in BJ’s old army trunk, under his bed, collecting dust. There had been a time when Hawk had very little of him: a shoebox full of letters, a couple fading photos, mismatched socks that had never been traded back.
“So do I,” BJ said.
“Maybe we can introduce Erin to the joys of patronizing other people’s garage sales,” Hawkeye said.
“Peg will have my head if we send her home with an extra bag of nonsense,” BJ said.
“She can keep it here,” Hawkeye said.
“What about decluttering?” BJ said.
Hawkeye exhaled, with extra drama. “Everyone’s a critic,” he said.
“We should get up. We’ve got things to do,” BJ said.
Hawkeye kissed him, long and lazy.
“I’m plenty busy,” he said.
The volume of the music downstairs lowered, fractionally.
“Dad?” Erin called.
“Yeah, bug?” BJ said.
“I’m out of orange stickers,” she said.
“She’s out of orange stickers, Beej,” Hawkeye repeated, gravely.
“Maybe it’s time for an ice cream break,” BJ said.
Hawkeye sat up. His hair was mussed and his face was pink. He stretched, languidly, and yawned. BJ missed the sensation of Hawk’s skin against his.
He pressed his palm to BJ’s knee and squeezed. Sometimes BJ thought Hawk could read his mind. Maybe the feeling went both ways.
“Inspired idea,” Hawk said.