Baz

December 22nd – one year after ice skating

We couldn't decide if our anniversary was December 22nd (as I believe) or December 23rd (as Simon insists). So Simon, unwilling to face even this small confrontation, decided we should have a two day anniversary.

I teased him that it was because then there'd be two days of presents. His ridiculous, beautiful face lit up as he squeaked "I hadn't even thought of that part!" He's still like a little kid when it comes to presents.

But then he turned serious and gravely insisted that it does not in the least imply two days of presents. We will each get one present, but on two different days. One a day. I'll give him his present on the day I think is the real anniversary, and vice versa.

Anyway, we agreed that I would be in charge of the December 22nd anniversary. And he would do the 23rd.

Today's the 22nd. My day. But now he says he's too excited to wait an extra day to give me my present. He needs to give it to me immediately or he will explode.

I offer token resistance, but quickly relent. I am magnanimous enough not to point out that it had been his rule to begin with. I tell myself that my self-restraint has nothing to do with the fact that he is now bouncing up and down and kissing me and telling me I'm the best boyfriend in the world. Any world. All the worlds.

He does me the courtesy of pretending to believe my sigh of exasperation and condescending eyebrow. He pulls away and runs into the other room. He returns almost immediately, and hands me a lumpy, gloriously silly-looking package that is just barely contained by a complex array of paper and ribbons and scotch tape.

He scowls at me when I laugh. I'm actually a little nervous. We don't exactly have the best track record when it comes to presents. I've already decided that I'm going to give him my present in the garden at the club, later tonight. Because, apparently, I'm the worlds biggest sap. So now I have to sit here while he watches me open this, with no retaliatory gift-giving until hours and hours from now.

I pull off the ribbons, and three bundles of cloth tumble out of the paper. They're very soft. Hand knit (not particularly well), and pale blue..

I pick them up, trying not to give away how clueless I am. I glance up at Simon. He's looking at me with a challenge in his eyes. Waiting for me to admit I have no idea what these are supposed to be. Or maybe waiting to see how long I'll keep pretending I'm not baffled. I want to say something witty and easy. But I'm scared of fucking up. So I just keep looking at him, turning it around. Waiting to see how long he can hold in the explanation.

I win. He never could stay quiet for very long.

"I made them! Jackie taught me how to knit! They're called lover's mittens!"

I look dubiously at the pile of objects on my lap. Two of them bear a passing resemblance to mittens. But the third is a mystery.

"See! This one goes on your hand," he says, and slips a soft blue mitten over my right hand. "This one goes on my hand," he continues, slipping one his left hand. "And this one," he says, holding up the bizarre third bit, "goes over both our hands! so we can wear mittens and still hold hands!"

He points out two little openings in the third bundle of cloth. One for his right hand, and one for my left. Then he holds my hand inside the cozy little bag, and smiles.

This time when I laugh, he laughs with me. It's tricky, holding hands with the sun. The heat from his smiles reflects blindingly off our be-mittened hands, travels along the veins of my arm directly to my heart, and radiates out until every part of me burns.

Simon

For our first first anniversary, Baz takes me back to the jazz club. He claims it's because the membership expires at the end of the year. He reasonably points out that we may as well go while we still can. I don't let on that I know that it's really because he's the world's biggest sap.

This time, I wear a suit. But we also wear the mittens I knit, and he refuses to take them off, even once we get inside.

Honestly, I'm a bit embarrassed. But he holds my hand behind the blue curtain of the third mitten, across the dance floor and down the hidden staircase. My face burns, but there's no way that I'm backing down first.

He finally has to let go of my hand, as the mundane logistics of descending stairs win out over the ever present desire to be connected. Palm to palm, skin to skin, body to body. Our hands have to part, but the mittens stay.

I can see nothing but him as he moves in front of me. I see his edges: the smooth straight line of his back, the sweeping perpendicular force of his shoulders. I see his form slice through space. I watch the elegant confidence of his legs and arms as they swing and balance to propel him forward.

The rhythm of him, just him walking. It does things to me. Things that pull in opposite directions but don't cancel out. It fills me with a warm, weighty fondness that lumps in my throat and pours through my limbs like honey. And it electrifies me with a trembling rush, a tightening and a loosening that makes my fingers curl with the sense memory of moving across his skin.

I see his edges, and then they bend and curve. His head turns smoothly towards me and his face transforms. It shifts and melts into the expression that I know is mine. It's the Baz-seeing-Simon version of his face, and it is soft and sharp and beautiful; it is mine.

He finally takes the mittens off when we get to the dark wood of the anteroom where we check our coats, but he immediately takes my hand in his again. I find it hard not to kiss him, but I manage.

I hold back because now he's slipping something out of his pocket and into the hand of the uniformed attendant, and I know the gravity implied by the simple gesture. He's returning the medallion held by all club members. The act of giving it back signals his intention to withdraw from the club when his current subscription expires next week.

The irony is that, although he can no longer afford to pay the membership, I can. He reacted really badly when I tried. Which was kind of funny and kind of awful and kind of one of those moments that convinces you there must be a god after all. How else can you explain the universe's obsession with the worst kind of practical jokes?

The moment passes. We walk to his table, hand in hand. By now, I know to expect a waiter to just show up with some food and wine. I can't help but think back to last year. It's bizarre to remember seeing Baz through that lens of fear. It seems so, so long ago. It's a relief to know we'll never have to make that trip again, the journey from there to here. From then to now. Whatever happens next, there's no going back to that bleak reality. There's no reality left in which I fear him.

It makes me lean across the table and finally kiss him. He looks startled for a second, and then happy. He sweeps his thumb across the back of my hand in what's become a gesture as familiar as breathing, and we just sit and look at each other. It's cheesy and absurd and I don't give a fuck. Like everything else that is good in my life, I fought for this. We both did. We fucking earned the right to be this irritating.

Instead of a waiter bearing a tray, an older man in a jacket and tie appears at the table. He puts something down next to Baz, and I recognize it as the medallion Baz had just handed in.

"Good evening Mr. Pitch," he says formally to Baz. He turns to me and nods politely, "Sir." Normally someone calling me sir would annoy me, but the man radiates a calm kindness that leaves me feeling warm instead.

He turns back to Baz and continues speaking. "I would be honored if you would do me the favor of accepting this invitation."

Baz picks up the medallion. I realize that I was wrong. It's not the one Baz returned. It's a slightly different color, with a subtly different pattern on the front. I only notice because Baz has been quietly looking at it for a lot longer than something familiar should merit.

Finally Baz looks back up at the man, nods slightly, and replies, "the honor is mine. Thank you." I've never heard him use this tone before.

I mean, I've heard him be formal before. Lots of times. But it was always different.

With his father, the formality is inflected with a tone of careful emptiness. In front of professors and deans, it is forceful and powerful. And with Davy. That was my favorite version of the genre. Slicing, cutting, mocking. Destruction by diphthong.

But this is different from any of those. It's almost deferential; a warm nod, just this side of outright affection.

The man smiles in response, just slightly, and inclines his head. But his eyes betray the strength of his happiness at Baz's response. He turns, about to go, when Baz breaks character.

He coughs slightly. In anyone else this would be unremarkable. But it's not anyone else. It's Baz. In a voice that betrays more uncertainty than he generally permits himself in public, he speaks quietly. One word. "Why?"

The man stops, turns back to the table, and raises an eyebrow. I feel like asking if they both learned the gesture from the same YouTube video, but somehow I manage to withstand the temptation.

"The chef would never forgive me if I deprived him of two people who actually understand his food," the man says after a moment. Then he adds, with the tiniest twist of his lips, "As I am the chef, it seemed prudent to pay heed."

Baz

I've heard rumors of a lifetime medallion, but I thought they were just that. Rumors. A secret club inside a secret club below a secret club. I should be disgusted. But I'm not. I'm happy. Maybe a bit thrilled, even. Because one of the rumors I've heard is about a particular corner of the garden. Particularly private. With a secret exit, past which a car is always ready to take you home.

One part of my mind starts planning how to put this information (which I have, but Simon surely doesn't) to best use. If my smile grows wider as the plans take shape, it's easy to hide it behind a glass of wine. Or blame it on the pleasure of watching Simon eat and talk. Or on the giddy joy that steals over both of us as we sit and drink and talk and touch.

Honestly, it's not that hard to keep things from Simon. But I feel pleased with myself nonetheless.

Simon

The break towards the end of the meal finally comes. I've been looking forward to this part of the night all night. The garden.

Not that everything hasn't been great up to this point. It has. The music and food were amazing. In fact, the food tonight was exceptionally good. Or maybe it's just that things have a tendency to taste better when they're not seasoned by fear and secrets.

It's been glorious so far. But my heart beats faster the closer we get to the moment when we walk down the side hallway to the magic garden beyond it.

It's started raining when we finally get outside. But the rain is gentle, and feels good after the closed indoor air. We're sitting in a more secluded area of the gardens, and the trees and sculptures form a sort of shelter above us. We're still getting wet, but not uncomfortably. And the bench we're settled on is heated.

As a result, I'm having the surreal experience of being outside in the rain while being dry and warm at the same time. And it hits me that this is what being with Baz feels like. Outside and inside. Risky but safe, exciting but calm. A blur of speeding light, a soft layer of steady earth.

We sit for a minute, quietly, holding hands. The warmth of his palm on mine and the coolness of his fingers on my skin make me shiver in a sweet wash of apprehension. Fear and safety, falling together. I can't help smiling at the ridiculous look on his face. How did I ever find it intimidating? It's the most vulnerable expression there is: terror masked by the sheer will not to be afraid. I lean forward and kiss him gently.

He smiles at me then, wide and real. But he's still nervous. So he cocks an eyebrow, and whispers "do you think you can restrain yourself for just another a minute, you eager oaf?"

He's left it wide open, and I can't resist. I lean in closer and move my mouth to his ear and lick it before answering "I think you're going to have to restrain me yourself if that's what you're after." I'm rewarded by the nearly undetectable flush that moves up his long throat to the tips of his ears, painting his cheeks and lips in a way that makes my taunt a bit more genuine. I won't be able to keep my hands to myself much longer when he's looking at me like that.

But. Presents!

So I sit back, pushing back my shoulders and shifting my chin forward. For whatever reason, this renders him into helpless mush every time. "Fine," I say, fake-petulant. "What's so fucking urgent?"

A tiny smile flickers across his lips, and then he looks serious again. He pushes a box onto my lap, and mutters something that might be "happy anniversary, asshole," but probably isn't. The first thing I notice is that the box is held shut by bakery ribbons. The kind from last year, smooth and deep. This year's are kind of velvety and pastel. He had to have saved these for a year. I'm shocked into silence despite my best intentions to be a pain in his ass.

I open the box carefully. It's filled with. Well, with stuff. Lots and lots of… stuff. I start looking through it. It'll take hours to go through everything, but I let myself pick up a few things at random.

A napkin covered in anxious doodles and still smelling faintly of wontons. The wrapper from an aero bar I know he stole from me. The receipt for the skate rental last winter. The sticker that held closed the box of muffins he gave me. The card I'd put in the hands of the tiny Paddington bear on his cake. A bottle of lube. (I can feel my ears burning, and try to pretend I hadn't picked that one up.) Camping hand-warmers we'd brought to Grant's tomb. A postcard from the zoo with giraffes on it. A sealed packet with a single powdered donut. A key. A picture of the two of us that Penny must've taken. Our tickets from graduation. And a small cream-colored rectangle bordered in sapphire with three words written in Baz's elegant scrawl: I choose you.

Baz

He holds the card long enough to read it, and then lets it flutter through the air back into the box. His face is complicated. I discover that this no longer scares me.

I gently take the box from his lap, putting it down where it will be protected from the rain until I'm ready for it again. I mean, ready for him to hold something again; something that isn't me.

And then I lean towards him, one arm keeping me balanced in the bench while the other slips around his shoulders and across his back. I keep my eyes open until I see his soften and close, until I see his mouth smile and open.

I let my eyes close too, and I kiss him.

Simon

A tiny focus of warmth spreads from our lips, across our tongues, and shoots through me, until I wouldn't be surprised if I was literally steaming in the heat of it. I trust him to have put my box somewhere safe. I trust him to know it's ok for us to be doing this, here. I trust him. I open myself to him and lean into the kiss and let everything else wash off me.

I've kissed Baz a fair number of times by now. And it's good. It's always so good. It's a little different each time. Sleepy night kisses. Hungry morning kisses. Fast sweet kisses when we're going to be apart for the day. Slow sweet kisses when we get back home.

But this is a wholly different form of kiss. This kiss is a whole world. I enter into it, and there is nothing here but me and Baz. The world of this kiss holds me close and keeps me safe. The world of this kiss has shivering winds that raise goosebumps across my body. This world feels warm; it smells sweet and strong. I float in the low gravity air of this world for a moment, and then it changes again.

Baz's fingers are in my hair. Baz's warm breath is moving across my face. I am fully present in the usual world now, body alive with the longing hum of having Baz so close. The electric thrum of his pulse beneath my fingers makes my breath come fast. The press of his fingers in my hair makes my breath catch. The tug of his fingers, his lips, his teeth on my skin. His touch makes my breath gasp.

Then.

His tongue slides up my neck, slow and sure, from my collarbone to my ear. My fingers clench against him.

"Umm, Baz?" I'm impressed that I manage to speak at all.

"Mmmm?" he hums against me.

Not helping.

"What are you – oh! Doing?"

"Hmm. Drinking."

"Whhhhaaammm…."

"Rain. You. I'm drinking the rain off of you."

"But-"

"Hush."

"But I – oh!" And then I can't speak anymore, because his tongue and teeth are teasing my ear and his leg is pressed up between mine and it's all I can do not to moan. What the (oh. Oh.) fuck is he (fuck!) thinking? We're (oh my god) in public (fuckingjesusfuckingchrist) and I'm going to (fuck fuck fuck)

He finally pulls away, looking pleased with himself. I wait for my breath and my heart to stop racing and finally I can speak again.

I can speak. But I don't.

I can't waste this new discovery. I pull him back in and proceed to determine just how deep his exhibitionism goes.

We stay in the garden for a long, long time.

Nothing interrupts us. I start to realize this isn't a typical corner of the garden. My suspicion is confirmed when we're spared any weirdness of walking back through the club this disheveled. We sneak out of a hidden side door that apparently is only open to holders of the elusive lifetime medallion, and make our way home.

Penny

I forgot it was their anniversary. One of them anyway. Until I got to their door and they didn't answer it.

I'm just walking back down the block towards campus when I catch them out of the corner of my eye. I'm far enough that they don't notice me, and shameless enough to take full advantage of it.

They get out of a cab. Awkwardly. At some point I realize it's so awkward because they refuse to stop holding hands. I start to hide my smile before I remember they can't see me.

I keep smiling as I watch them navigate the path from cab to door, still holding fast to one another. Simon's trying to carry a box simultaneously, and it's a lost cause. He's clumsy at the best of times. By which I mean, when he's not drunk on alcohol and lust.

When Baz bumps his shoulder and reaches out for the box, I see that they are wearing the absolutely ridiculous mittens that Simon insisted on making. My smile grows as Baz starts showing off how perfectly he can balance the box in one hand while doing various maneuvers with the other. Simon's laugh follows me down the block, and I keep smiling.

I smile all the way home.