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“I’ll give you this one, Ro,” you mumble between bittersweet spoonfuls, “usually your snobbery achieves very little. But this?” you lift your spoon slightly and twist your wrist somewhat, gesturing towards the mug in your other hand “this was a great find.”
Rohan scoffs. “My snobbery is very effective, mind you. And extremely warranted.” he sips from his ornately decorated teacup, “and of course it was. I selected it, after all”
The two of you lounged on your shared bed, sipping on gourmet hot chocolate Rohan had purchased while on a business trip in France. It was rich, but not oppressively sweet, allowing the bitter natural quality of the cocoa to shine. For all the flak you gave him, you couldn’t deny that his refined palette had improved your quality of life greatly, even if you somewhat resented the fact you couldn’t enjoy the shitty chain diner food of your homeland anymore. An LP of old folk demos crackled in the near distance, laying a soft blanket of sound over the myriad other pleasant sensations the night had presented you with.
You spooned another mouthful of the dark liquid into your mouth, tilting your head back slightly and allowing it to naturally slide down your throat. You could feel it traveling through you by the distinct heat that blazed through your mouth and down to your stomach. It was a unique sensation, you thought, the feeling of hot liquid resting heavily in your insides. It was grounding–reminding you of tea, of hot soup, of home. You turned slightly to examine the man beside you. He was half-laying on his side, keeping himself propped on his elbows as he delicately sipped his drink.
Delicate. That was the exact sort of word you always used when describing him, terms used for describing fine, hand-crafted lace or a painting one is only permitted to view from a distance. Elegant. Refined. Downright beautiful. That’s what you thought of him. You carefully observe him as he peers into his cup, evidently deep in thought. A pang of unexpected envy hit you as you noticed the natural slope and bounce of his eyelashes, and how they seemed to flutter as he blinked. He’d be pleased if he ever truly got to examine himself the way you do, for the entirety of his face seemed to be composed in a way that suggested deliberate artistry. The sharpness of his features, his angled jaw and cheekbones, against the inviting plush of his lips.
Letting this indulgent train of thought continue, you slowly began extending your free hand towards him, gently cupping his face. This caused him to look up.
“Hm?” he raises his eyebrows. Gently, as not to shake the bed and potentially spill the mug of near-scalding liquid on both the comforter and your legs, you take the spoon inside from your mug and lift it towards his lips. His brows furrow somewhat, but his lips inevitably part, allowing the spoon entry. You let its bowl linger in his mouth as you watch his facial expression shift–you note how the corner of his lips are slightly upturned. You see as he swallows, and your eyes can’t help but follow the liquid as it settles inside of him. You imagined heat spreading throughout him as well, and wondered what images it conjured in his mind. Perhaps drinking something expensive somewhere foreign? Or maybe he, too, occasionally betrays the solid teflon of his exterior and can fondly remember a childhood meal. You were determined to find out, but perhaps not in this moment.
You extract the spoon from his mouth, returning it to your mug. Your hand, which was once cradling his face, moves to the center of his chest, slotting nicely between his collarbones and dipping down slightly beneath the neckline of his shirt. He begins to open his mouth, but you’re swift to cut him off.
“Take another sip, please? Of yours.” Surprisingly, he obliges wordlessly. He takes a swift yet hearty sip from the cup, and almost instantaneously, you can feel a moderate amount of warmth blooming from his chest. Your eyes widened at the sensation. You wished you could feel that heat, which entered through his mouth, in your chest. You wished to be so close to him that you could feel everything which entered him, and that everything he felt in his body could be felt by you in yours. You kept your hand firmly planted into his chest, occasionally rubbing your thumb back and forth.
“Are you alright?” He asks, his voice atypically sincere.
“Yes,” you reply, “I just… I love you. Is all.” He smiles, and brings one of his hands to meet yours on his chest. Your fingers interlock with his, and the two of you share a comfortable, admiring silence.
“I love you too, you know,” he replies, “even if I’m not always the best at it.”
“You’re the best I’ve ever known.” You begin leaning in closer towards him, until you notice the faint music emanating from your speaker has ceased. “I ought to take care of that-” You’re cut off by him pulling you that little bit closer. His lips are warm, and soft, and coaxing as they envelop around your own and beg you to lie down and stay a while beside him. You nearly oblige them, but you find yourself pulling away out of want for air.
“I’ve just got to go flip it.” you whisper, and you sense an air of protestation about him, but he says nothing as he unweaves his hand from yours, leaving you to rise from the bed and attend to the task at hand. You flip the record and return to his side. You take the liberty of setting aside the two of your cups on your bedside table and lie down beside him once more, resting on your back and staring up at the ceiling. Your hand found his once again.
It occurred to you at this moment that your life had been so devoid of romance up until this point–or perhaps, it was present, but is now greatly overshadowed by everything that had occurred to you on this evening alone. Spoonfeeding yourself luxury hot cocoa in a dark bedroom next to your lover as the soft ringing of a guitar lulled you towards something dreamlike and fantastical–the rest of your life.
Rohan was barely keeping his eyes open, but he still managed to muster up a smile as you met his gaze.
“You know some… some poems don’t you? Off the top of your head?”
“A couple.”
“Why don’t you recite me one. Just real quick.”
God, he must be tired. You’d never seen anyone work quite as hard as he does. He was practically asking for a bedtime story in the most dignified way he could manage. It made you laugh a little to yourself.
“Here, I’ve got one for you.”
“O my Lord,
the stars glitter
and the eyes of men are closed.
Kings have locked their doors
and each lover is alone with his love.
Here, I am alone with you.”