[Which is strange to think about, much stranger still to say, even if just to himself. The idea of being happy, of having his own home to feel happy in, of feeling happy with someone else whether or not some objective measure of success has been met . . . that's unusual. Almost unheard of. It's been ages. Years, maybe. Longer than that.]
[But at the same time, it feels perfectly natural. They've settled into a routine here, the two of them. It wasn't easy, but he thinks that finally they might have made it work — and the strange thing about it is that it feels like slipping into a suit that's been tailored to fit. Even the hard days, of which there are more than a few, don't feel quite so awful together as they would alone.]
[They're better. Everything's better. And he's comforted by the fact that if he wakes up in the night and needs to be even less alone than the shared space of their apartment ensures, he can make his drowsy way to Joseph's side and be welcomed automatically, always.]
[So he's relaxed, now. Relaxed and happy, such a novel state, curled up at the kitchen table with tea and a book. He can hear Joseph bustling in, loud like he always is — sighs and puts the bookmark in his place, rises and stretches and steps to the living room's doorway to see.]
Mm? What did you — ?
[And then he stops, and he loses his words.]
[Those . . . are sunflowers.]
[Which are out of season. And — and that was a throwaway piece of nonsense, anyway. Weeks ago now. He'd been so sure Joseph would have forgotten by now, if not immediately. And even if he hadn't, there would be no reason for him to bring him a present like that, he thought — he thought something for you was a book from the library, or—]
no subject
[Which is strange to think about, much stranger still to say, even if just to himself. The idea of being happy, of having his own home to feel happy in, of feeling happy with someone else whether or not some objective measure of success has been met . . . that's unusual. Almost unheard of. It's been ages. Years, maybe. Longer than that.]
[But at the same time, it feels perfectly natural. They've settled into a routine here, the two of them. It wasn't easy, but he thinks that finally they might have made it work — and the strange thing about it is that it feels like slipping into a suit that's been tailored to fit. Even the hard days, of which there are more than a few, don't feel quite so awful together as they would alone.]
[They're better. Everything's better. And he's comforted by the fact that if he wakes up in the night and needs to be even less alone than the shared space of their apartment ensures, he can make his drowsy way to Joseph's side and be welcomed automatically, always.]
[So he's relaxed, now. Relaxed and happy, such a novel state, curled up at the kitchen table with tea and a book. He can hear Joseph bustling in, loud like he always is — sighs and puts the bookmark in his place, rises and stretches and steps to the living room's doorway to see.]
Mm? What did you — ?
[And then he stops, and he loses his words.]
[Those . . . are sunflowers.]
[Which are out of season. And — and that was a throwaway piece of nonsense, anyway. Weeks ago now. He'd been so sure Joseph would have forgotten by now, if not immediately. And even if he hadn't, there would be no reason for him to bring him a present like that, he thought — he thought something for you was a book from the library, or—]
[He's staring, a little.]