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The first time Gerry sees him, he loses his breath for a moment.
The train surfaces and the rare London sun peaks out, glinting through the windows. It reflects off a head of blonde hair and snags Gerry’s attention.
It draws Gerry’s eye the way any passing stranger on the tube would draw his eye. Someone he could sketch, or maybe paint. He doesn’t usually paint portraits, but he makes exceptions.
The stranger wears a nice button down, crisply pressed and framing his shoulders neatly. He has a blazer draped over his forearm. He must have taken it off in honor of the uncharacteristically warm weather. He wears wired earbuds and stares out the window, unblinkingly taking in the scenery before the train descends underground. The sunlight stops glinting off the huge mass of golden curls. The stranger glances back down at his phone when the windows are met with dark concrete.
Pretty, Gerry thinks as he moves his gaze onward to the other people in his carriage.
Gerry’s been trying to make a better habit of going into his studio more often. Diana, his therapist, thinks it will help his mindset if he has a place for work-painting and a place for fun-painting. She’s probably right. She usually is. At the very least, it’s nice to have a reason to get out of bed, if only to make sure he doesn’t miss his train.
Gerry makes his way down the steps into the station, hustling past the throng of people. At this hour, everyone has somewhere to be. Gerry slows to a virtual crawl as he winds up behind a group of what can only be tourists. He spends longer than he would like angling for a gap to press through before he manages, shouldering his way into the station. Gerry shakes his head as he presses forward.
In Gerry’s mild irritation, he bumps shoulders with someone a little too forcefully. The stranger stumbles. Reeling, Gerry reaches out and steadies the man, grabbing him by the bicep so neither of them end up eating shit.
“Sorry, sorry,” Gerry mumbles, “You alright?”
The man looks down at himself and then back up. “I think so. Sorry about that.”
Gerry blinks. “You didn’t do anything.”
“Well,” the stranger shrugs and looks down. Is he blushing? “Sorry anyway.”
Gerry musters up a smile, finally releasing his hand and bringing it back to his side. “No harm done.”
The interaction is made a touch more awkward by the fact that they both continue walking in the same direction. Gerry speeds up a bit. He carefully chooses a carriage far from where the stranger gets in.
When Gerry finds an open space to cram himself into, he looks down at his shirt and sees a single curly blonde hair sticking to the fabric. He pulls it away and lets it fall to the floor.
Gerry internally cheers when he manages to find an open seat. He settles in right as someone sits next to him. This time he recognizes the person as the same man he’d bumped into last week.
Gerry takes in the man’s appearance and tries not to seem like he’s openly checking him out. Listen, he’s just a man. He’s not immune to passing pretty boys.
The stranger is on the phone, smiling slightly as he lifts his bag onto his knees.
“Listen, Helen-” The stranger begins, but is interrupted by a string of unintelligible chatter from the other end of the phone. The man’s smile grows exasperated and he shakes his head. “I can’t go for drinks with you tonight, I’m sorry!” There’s more chatter from the phone. “It’s Wednesday, and I have a deadline Friday I really don’t want to miss. It’s a really good one, remind me to tell you about it later.” More unintelligible words. “No, I don’t want to tell you about the story over drinks tonight.”
Gerry finds himself grinning, and he tries to avert his gaze so he isn’t quite so openly eavesdropping. Still, he doesn’t need his eyes to hear.
“I don’t know if you remember the last time we went out for drinks, but it was not fun hauling you back to your flat. Oh, you weren’t that bad, huh? What was it you said? That you wanted to live between the uber driver’s boobs?”
Gerry snorts and tries to cover it with a cough. He fails, if the mirthful glance the stranger gives him is any indication. At least he doesn’t seem mad that Gerry overheard.
“No means no, Helen. I’ll see you on Sunday for brunch.”
The stranger hands up at that, letting his phone slip back into his bag. “Some people, huh?” He asks, sharing a shy glance at Gerry.
Gerry chuckles and nods.
Gerry just manages to squeeze onto the train. He sighs through his nose, searching for an open spot. He squeezes between a few people into a corner. He rubs his eyes, stifling a yawn.
Gertrude had warned him about bingewatching late at night. He hadn’t listened, and he’d overslept. The consequences of his actions strike again.
At least he made it onto his train in time.
Gerry gathers his hair in his hands, smoothing out the bumps with his fingers. He grabs his hair tie with his teeth and it snaps, the elastic flicking back onto his wrist with a little thwap.
“Shit,” Gerry hisses, shaking out his hand. He sighs. That was his only hair tie. He doesn’t even have a pencil to corral his hair together. Great. What a start to the day.
“Do you need an elastic?” Someone asks.
Gerry turns to see the golden haired stranger he’s seen a few times now. “Do you have one?”
The stranger nods. “I always keep extras on hand. Here, one second.”
The man rifles through his bag for a bit before emerging with some kind of band that must be a hair tie. It’s curled, plastic wrapped in a coiling pattern.
“Is this a hair tie?” Gerry asks, taking it in his fingers. He stretches his fingertips out, testing the elasticity of it.
The stranger nods. “It’s better for your hair. Doesn’t pull as much.”
Gerry gathers his hair together once more and slips the elastic on, wrapping it thrice around a less-than-perfect ponytail. Sure enough, it doesn’t tug on his hair quite as harshly as he’s used to.
“Huh,” Gerry muses, feeling at the back of his head. It doesn’t seem in any danger of falling out. “Thanks.”
“I’m Michael.”
“Gerry. Nice to meet you.”
“I’ve seen you around, but I don’t know if you’ve seen me.”
“Once or twice,” Gerry says.
The truth is that he always spares a glance to the pretty stranger with golden curls if they share the same carriage. Sometimes Gerry just spares him a passing glance as he observes the others. Sometimes Gerry watches him listen to music with his wired earbuds and his watchful staring out the window. He’s very pretty. Gerry can’t really be held at fault for looking.
Michael smiles. “Well, it’s nice to meet you.”
Gerry’s been staring at Michael for ten minutes now. He doesn’t think Michael sees him, he’s too busy nodding his head along to whatever music he’s listening to.
On impulse, he reaches over to tap Michael on the shoulder. He turns, a look of vague surprise on his face. His eyes glimmer with recognition and his cheeks go just the slightest bit pink, barely noticeable under the lights.
“Hm?”
Gerry swallows his nervousness. “What are you listening to?”
“Oh! Do- would you like to listen with me?”
Michael pulls out an earbud and offers it to Gerry, who takes it and puts it in his ear. The wires mean they have to step closer together, nearly chest to chest. Gerry stifles a quick moment of flustered panic and tries to keep his stance casual.
Michael looks down at his phone, pulling up his music and pressing play.
Gerry doesn’t recognize the artist, nor the song. It’s nothing like he would listen to, but he keeps the earbud in. Michael holds his phone limply at his side and resumes looking out the window, even though they’re belowground now.
Gerry leans against the pole and lets the music sink in. He catches glimpses of Michael when he can, taking in the gorgeous hair and the look of serenity on his face.
Gerry gets to the station early this time, with ten minutes to spare before his train gets in. He leans against a post and checks his phone, answering a text from a commissioner.
“Good morning,” someone says, stepping up next to him.
Gerry looks up to see Michael, holding the same messenger bag and bearing a smile on his face. Gerry grins in return.
“Morning.”
“Nice weather, isn’t it?”
Gerry stifles a secret little grin at that. He’s graduated to the stage of friendship where they talk about the weather. Big news. He should tell Gertrude to bake a cake. Not that she would.
“Bit nippy.”
Michael nods. “I like it a bit on the brisk side. Wakes me up in the morning.”
“You must love winter.”
“Better than summer. I like wearing my sweaters.”
“Lucky that we’re getting there. Only a few more days until the start of fall, right?”
Michael smiles. Gerry takes a moment to appreciate the fact that he’s really actually quite cute. “Yep. Leaves will start to change colors and everything.”
“I’ve always been a summer fan myself,” Gerry admits, “But that’s just because the weather gets nice enough that I can show off my tattoos.”
“Oh!” Michael’s eyes widen slightly in interest, “I think I’ve seen one or two of them.”
Gerry can’t remember the last time he wore short sleeves on the tube, but he can take Michael’s word for it. He slips an arm out of his jacket and rolls up his sleeve, exposing one of his tattoos. On his bicep sits a siren on a rock made of skulls. A stream of red drips from her hair where she wrings it out.
Michael’s eyes seem to dilate and then contract. “Yeah, I saw the bottom half of this. It’s a really nice tattoo.”
“Designed it myself,” Gerry says with a hint of pride.
Michael’s mouth falls open slightly in shock. “It’s amazing.”
“Thank you,” Gerry replies with a pleased smile, because he’s not immune to praise.
The train rolls in and the two men make their way into the carriage. As they get swallowed in the throng of people, they end up getting pushed to opposite ends of the carriage.
All day Gerry catches himself thinking about the open admiration on Michael’s face when he’d found out Gerry was an artist.
The train is particularly packed when Gerry squeezes in. He wedges himself into a spare space, grabbing onto the railing.
When he notices Michael coming onto the train, Gerry shoulders a few other people aside to make room. He meets Michael’s eyes and gestures, drawing him close.
“Thanks,” Michael says, offering a little smile as he grabs onto the railing.
Gerry feels goddamn butterflies light up in his chest. He swallows and reaches for something to say. “You off to work?”
He doesn’t facepalm, but it’s a near thing. Yes, Gerry, obviously he’s off to work. Was the blazer and button down not enough of an indication?
Michael doesn’t seem to think the question is as asinine as it is. He only nods. “I’m a journalist.”
“Oh, really? Like, investigative, or sports?”
Michael gives a little half chuckle. “No, definitely not sports. I specialize in arts and culture.”
“Oh really? That’s fancy,” Gerry says, because apparently cute boys turn him into a twat.
Michael doesn’t seem to notice. “I just published a piece on murals in greater London.”
“Yeah?”
Michael’s eyes glimmer with barely restrained excitement. “I really like that one. One of my best ones yet.”
“I thought all journalism was done online these days,” Gerry wonders.
“Most of it is. I just happened to draw the short straw when I was job hunting,” Michael shrugs, “I don’t mind too much though. Gets me out of the house.”
Gerry can sympathize. He loves Gertrude, but he gets crazy if he doesn’t get out of the house. Good woman, sometimes a terrible roommate.
“Oh, shit, this is my stop,” Michael starts, jumping to attention.
“Mine too,” Gerry notices, pushing forwards to get off the train.
“Funny, that,” Michael says and doesn’t elaborate.
The Underground spits them out onto the surface streets with the crowd of people, everyone with somewhere different to be.
“I’m heading this way,” Michael says, jerking his thumb in the opposite direction Gerry needs to go.
“I’m this way,” Gerry gestures with his head.
“Ah, well. I’ll see you later,” Michael says with a bright smile. Gerry returns it and tries to fight the torrent of flutters in his stomach.
As soon as Gerry reaches his studio he pulls out his phone, searching for that article. It’s the second result, which surprises Gerry a bit. Popular journalist, apparently. Or maybe Google was just listening in.
Street Murals and Their Place in Our City
By Michael Shelley. Huh. Gerry’s lips move around the words, familiarizing with the shape of the first and last name.
Gerry gets so invested in the article that he almost forgets to paint.
“You didn’t tell me you were an artist,” Michael says as they descend the stairs into the platform together.
“What?”
“I-I looked you up,” Michael admits.
“You- how? I only gave you my first name.”
“W-well, when you showed me your tattoo the other day it reminded me of your artwork. I’ve been following your work for a few months now, keeping an ear out for up and coming artists, you know. And I saw your tattoo and thought ‘Oh that looks a lot like Gerry Keay’s art style’ b-but I didn’t really make the connection until I did some digging.”
Whatever Gerry’s feeling, he’s enjoying the blush creeping into Michael’s cheeks as he grows more and more self conscious.
“I didn’t mean to be a creep, I’m sorry if you didn’t-”
“It’s fine,” Gerry says, rescuing Michael from the hole he’s digging himself, “I mean, I’m not hiding any dead bodies or anything.”
“You’re a very good painter,” Michael continues after a moment. The train rumbles in and they climb on, finding space together.
Gerry shrugs. “I’m okay.”
“One website ranked you as one of the top ten most up and coming artists,” Michael says with a little grin, and Gerry can’t tell how serious he’s being.
“Really?” He raises an eyebrow.
“Look it up yourself,” Michael insists, and Gerry pulls out his phone.
Sure enough, Gerry finds himself listed in just that article. He skims it briefly, aware of Michael’s eyes on him.
“You know, if you ever want an article written about you, I happen to know a guy.”
“Oh yeah?” Gerry says with a raised eyebrow, “He any good at writing?”
“I like to think so.”
“I read your article about murals, by the way.”
Michael’s eyes widen and his blush creeps back in. “You did?”
Gerry nods, unable to stop a silly little smile spreading on his face. “It was good. I liked what you said about how the instinct to see it as trash is rooted in racism, I thought that was interesting.”
Michael’s eyes light up and he launches into a rant, going over the points he made in his article and expanding on it. Gerry listens and watches his pretty face light up with passion and excitement. It’s something Michael loves, he can tell by the fervor in his eyes. It’s hot, if Gerry is honest with himself.
Gerry listens and he slips into what might be called a crush. If one were so inclined. Gerry doesn’t know if he is yet.
Gerry steps onto the train as a shell of himself. He runs a hand through his mussed hair, trying to comb the flyaways into something manageable.
The rush hour heading home is no better than the rush hour heading to work. Usually Gerry likes to work a little later to avoid it, but he knows if he tries to paint much more it will only make him angrier.
He just can’t get this goddamn piece to fall in line. It won’t- Gerry stops, pushing the mental image of the painting away. He’s going home. He’ll go home and he’ll start again tomorrow. It’s fine.
He just has to get home first.
He sighs as he squeezes onto the train, shouldering his way into making a free spot. He scrubs his face with his palm and leans his forehead against the pole.
“You alright?” Michael asks.
Gerry starts, looking down to see Michael sitting down. He looks up at Gerry with polite concern.
“Sorry, didn’t see you there.”
“It’s alright,” Michael brushes it off, “Are you okay?”
“Long day,” Gerry explains, putting his free hand in his pocket.
“Here,” Michael says, standing, “Take my seat.”
“Oh no, I wouldn’t want-”
“Gerry,” Michael intones, looking at him with a gentle sternness, “Have a seat.”
Gerry’s too tired to argue. He slumps into the seat with a wearied sigh. “Thank you.”
Michael smiles. “It’s no problem. Is something wrong?”
“I’ve been doing this fundraising campaign for women who suffered from sexual or domestic abuse. Funds for mental health services and help getting back on their feet. All the proceeds for my commissions until the end of the month are going to that. I’ve been getting a lot of commissions because of it and trying to finish all of them is just a huge headache.”
Michael listens with a sympathetic frown. “It’s very admirable of you to do that.”
Gerry tries not to flush at that. He picks at the paint under his nails. “Thank you. I try to do this once or twice a year.”
“That’s really kind,” Michael says with a sweet smile. He’s so pretty. If Gerry were a braver man. Maybe one of these days.
Gerry musters up a smile in return. “Thank you."
Gerry tilts his head back onto the seat and sighs. Michael doesn’t say anything else for the rest of the tube ride. He just stands companionably by Gerry.
“Good morning,” Michael says when Gerry walks into the station. Gerry approaches, having spotted those golden curls from the moment he stepped off the stairs. He’s wearing a scarf today, thick and fluttering gently about his person. It looks wonderfully soft.
“Morning,” Gerry replies, stifling a yawn.
“They messed up my coffee this morning and remade it, I was wondering if you wanted it?” Michael offers a cup to Gerry. He blinks and takes it, the warmth spilling into his chilled hands.
Before Gerry can wonder about the fact that Michael thought of him like this, Michael continues, “It’s a vanilla latte. They made it with regular milk instead of almond so I got it remade.”
Gerry sips it. “Not bad. I usually prefer iced drinks.”
“Ice makes my teeth hurt,” Michael says with a shrug.
Gerry takes another sip. The warm drink sits in his bones, settling in his stomach with a gentle heat. He glances at Michael, who’s watching him a bit expectantly.
Michael thought of him. He was going about his morning and he thought of Gerry. Gerry can't help but wonder what Michael thought. Was Gerry just convenient, or was Michael hoping that he would see Gerry so he could give it to him?
“Next time I can bring you some,” Gerry says with a little smile, “To pay you back.”
Michael waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it.”
Gerry won’t. But he knows Michael’s order now. He won’t forget it.
Gerry sits next to Michael on the way home, miracle it is that they manage to find seats next to each other. Michael settles with his bag at his side, slumping in his chair.
Gerry doesn’t say anything at first, too absorbed in the slouch of Michael’s posture and the creases in his shirt and the way his eyes slip shut like he can’t help it.
He thinks of saying something, but Michael looks so exhausted that he doesn’t want to ruin his peace. He sighs, exhaling deeply.
When he starts to slump to the side, Gerry inches over just a bit, scooting over to Michael’s side. Michael’s head droops down and he just barely brushes against Gerry’s side before shooting straight up.
“Sorry! Sorry!” Michael murmurs, rubbing his eyes. He glances over at Gerry and his face splits into a small frown. "I don't mean to be rude, I'm sorry."
“It’s alright,” Gerry says with what he hopes is a reassuring smile. Fondness flickers in his chest. “Tired?”
Michael nods. “Didn’t sleep much last night, and then today was busy.”
Gerry swallows. He tries to think of a way to word his invitation without sounding desperate. “You can rest your head on my shoulder if you want. Get a bit of rest before we reach our stop.”
Michael looks like he’s about to protest, but he only nods wearily. He sets his head on Gerry’s shoulder, breathing immediately slowing. Gerry squares his shoulders, opening his chest to offer as much space as he can. The feeling that wells in Gerry’s chest can only be called fondness. Gerry wants to lift his arm, wrap it around Michael’s shoulders and hold him closer. From here he can smell a faint cologne lingering on Michael, or maybe that’s his shampoo. Sandalwood? Gerry has never been good with smells.
God, he’s adorable. Gerry smiles to himself as he feels Michael sigh. One day he’ll work up the courage to ask him out.
He nudges Michael when they reach their station. “Come on,” he mumbles, “Up you get.”
Michael rises and grabs his bag, shuffling off the train by Gerry’s side. They surface onto the streets and Gerry briefly shivers at the cold air hitting his cheeks.
“Get some rest, okay?” Gerry says when they part ways.
Michael smiles tiredly. “Thank you.”
When Gerry sleeps that night, he pictures Michael alone in his flat. He imagines the smell of sandalwood lingering on the bedsheets. His chest flutters.
The next morning, Gerry is greeted at the station by an iced drink pressed into his hands.
“I still don’t know your order,” Michael says, “But I remember you said you liked iced drinks. I wanted to thank you for yesterday. I know I was in a bit of a state.”
Gerry’s heart double skips at the nervous but hopeful look on Michael’s face. He curls his fingers tighter around the cup and brings it to his lips. Hazelnut, maybe.
“It’s good,” Gerry says with a smile. Michael’s face loses its nervousness and slips into a sweet happiness. “You don’t have to apologize to me though. I know how it feels to be tired like that.”
Michael pauses, as if he’s not sure how to respond to that. “Well. Thank you anyways.”
Gerry beams at Michael. His heart squeezes.
When he gets to his studio Gerry rinses the cup out and adds it to his pile of cups he uses for paint water. He’s not throwing that cup out.
“Ooh, what is this?”
“Peppermint bark,” Gertrude replies from the sofa.
Gerry hums, licking his lips performatively as he hovers over the dessert. He grabs a triangle and breaks a piece off, nibbling on it. “Delicious,” he simpers.
“Don’t eat all of it,” Gertrude only replies.
Gerry chews and thinks about Michael. “Do you mind if I take some tomorrow?”
“Do what you like,” Gertrude airily replies.
“Thanks. Nice to have something to snack on while I work.”
Gertrude narrows her eyes but doesn’t say anything. Thank God. Gerry knows she won’t care, but he knows the exact face she’ll make when she finds out he has a crush. The subtle raise of the eyebrow, the quirk of her lips that’s not quite a smile. It drives Gerry crazy. He ignores her and turns to the peppermint bark, neatly packing it into a container.
The next morning Gerry carries his peppermint bark onto the train, searching for Michael. He finds that pretty head of hair on the far end of the carriage. It’s a bit of a hassle weaving between the crowd, but Gerry stands next to Michael before long.
“Brought you something.”
Michael’s eyes light with surprise and he glances down at the container in Gerry’s hands. “You did?” He asks, he sounds absolutely delighted.
Gerry feels pride swell in his chest as he opens the container, revealing a few strips of peppermint bark. Michael’s eyes sparkle brighter as he delicately reaches in, plucking some out and taking a bite.
“This is so good,” Michael says with a little moan, “Did you make this?”
“No, my roommate did. I wish I could bake like that.”
“It’s not so hard,” Michael says with a shrug, “I could bring you something sometime.”
Gerry’s chest alights with butterflies. Michael smiles and there’s a small smear of chocolate by his lips. He’s so cute.
“I like chocolate chip cookies if you have them,” Gerry says, feeling brave enough to wink.
Michael’s cheeks go a bit pink and he nods. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Gerry shivers as he steps onto the train. He blows a stream of warm air into his clasped fists, rubbing his palms together.
It was a mistake to only wear a light jacket. Of course London would choose the day he’s ill prepared to snow. He brushes clumps of snow off his shoulders, watching as they melt onto the train floor.
Gerry looks up and meets Michael’s eyes. With another shiver he makes his way to where Michael stands.
“You look cold,” Michael notices.
“I feel cold. Goddamn London weather.”
“Well that’s what happens when you don’t dress for the weather,” Michael replies with a little raised eyebrow.
Gerry huffs. “How was I supposed to know it was going to snow?”
“There’s this thing called the weather forecast,” Michael says, eyes twinkling with laughter, “People use it to decide how they should dress for the day.”
“Weaklings,” Gerry says, right as he shivers from a cold breeze that comes out of nowhere.
Michael giggles. “Here. Take my scarf.”
Gerry blinks. “What?”
Michael’s already unwrapping the fabric from around his neck. “I don’t want you to be cold. You can just take my scarf for the day.”
Gerry blinks again as his brain tries to process the sentence. “I don’t want to take your scarf from you,” he says, brain working on autopilot in an attempt to be polite. All his addled mind can produce is the words Michael and scarf over and over. Very helpful.
“Nonsense,” Michael says with a little smile, “It’s the least I could do.”
And before Gerry can take the scarf from Michael, he begins wrapping it around Gerry’s neck. He bundles him up, performing a loose knot in the front. The scarf is knitted, or maybe crocheted. Gerry idly wonders if Michael hand made it while his idiotic brain tries to catch up. He can feel the ghost of Michael’s hands on his neck.
“T-thanks,” Gerry mumbles. He would be worried about what is no doubt a very obvious blush if he wasn’t occupied with making sure he doesn’t combust on the tube.
Michael smiles, bright and guileless. His eyes glimmer with something like mischief, though, and Gerry knows he knows what he’s doing. Gerry ducks his head before he can say something truly ridiculous.
Gerry takes the scarf off when he gets to the studio in order to avoid getting paint on it. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t think about it. In his weaker moments he finds himself wandering over to the scarf, picking it up and pressing his nose to the fabric.
He’s pathetic. He really needs to ask Michael out.
It has to be perfect, is the thing.
After all this back and forth, Gerry can’t just pop the question. What would he tell his friends when they asked how the two of them started dating? Nothing. He would say something boring about how they met on the tube, which completely takes away the actual feeling of it all.
Gerry chews idly on his pencil, sketchbook open on his lap. His phone sits to his left, previously open to a page of quote unquote ways to ask out your crush, but long since abandoned because none of them were nearly good enough.
“Gerry?” Gertrude asks.
Gerry starts, turning his attention to Gertrude. “Yeah, Gee Gee?”
Gertrude snorts. “Well, you’re up in the clouds. I made dinner earlier and you didn’t even touch it.”
“You didn’t make dinner, you heated it up,” Gerry retorts, an old habit of an argument.
Gertrude makes direct eye contact with him, eyebrow raised and lip quirked in her not-smile. Gerry rolls his eyes.
“You still didn’t touch it,” Gertrude points out.
“Sorry, sorry,” Gerry shakes his head, his gaze drawing back down to the empty sketchbook page like a magnet, “Just thinking.”
“Hm,” Gertrude says, skepticism dripping from her voice. She returns to her book. After a few minutes, she says, “If he likes your art, you might use that to your advantage."
Any other day, Gerry would be gobsmacked by that sentence. He’s never even mentioned a boy to Gertrude. How Gertrude always seems to know these things despite Gerry’s best attempts, he’ll never know. Gertrude is a mystery that many could only hope to solve.
Her words get the gears turning in Gerry’s brain, though, and he looks back down at his sketchbook.
“Huh,” he says, taking his pencil from where it dangles loosely in his mouth. That’s something. He could use that to his advantage.
Gerry spends the next hour and a half feverishly drawing, scrapping and restarting the drawing at least four times. When it finally looks good enough, he rips it from his book and flips it over. He spends another ten minutes thinking about what to write before deciding that he can’t go wrong with something simple.
I’d hate to deprive the world of you wearing this scarf. Let me buy you dinner so that I can return it to you?
A bit of a gamble, considering nothing is stopping Gerry from giving Michael his scarf on the tube. But he’s feeling bold. He’s pretty sure that Michael will say yes. Still. It’s nerve wracking.
He writes his number below, signing it off the way he signs all his paintings. He flips the sketch over and takes in the visual of Michael wearing that scarf, nose tucked into the folds and wearing those wire earbuds.
Gerry thinks he managed to capture that soft serenity Michael always seems to wear when he listens to music. And the hair. Curly and beautiful and just a little bit messy sometimes, but never anything less than breathtaking.
Gerry likes the sketch. Sue him for liking his own work. He has a good subject.
In the morning, Gerry slips the sketch into his back pocket, trying not to bounce too hard down the stairs. He keeps his cool.
As the weeks go by, Gerry makes more and more of an effort to try and get in the same carriage as Michael. This time, Gerry takes extra care to get in next to Michael. He doesn’t think he can go another day holding this sketch on him. He has to pass it off, before his courage wears off.
“Morning,” Michael says with a smile as they both step onto the train.
“Morning,” Gerry returns the smile.
They both get seats this time, next to each other too. Gerry tries not to read into that too much.
Michael pops in his earbuds like he usually does, leaving one out in case Gerry starts talking. The first time Gerry realized that was why Michael did that, his heart nearly stopped. It’s those little acts of thoughtfulness that have Gerry falling so hard/.
Gerry waits until the train has been moving for a while before he slips the sketch out of his pocket. He dangles it between two fingers for a few seconds, watching Michael out of the corner of his eye to make sure he doesn’t glance over and give the game away. He seems invested in the window.
With a move Gerry can only hope is casual, he slips the sketch into a side pocket of Michael’s messenger bag. As he does, his heart skips a beat and he looks away, affecting casualness.
The ride passes without note. Gerry and Michael get off at their stop, heading in opposite directions once they reach the surface streets.
More than an hour passes before Gerry gets a response. He tries to get work done, he really does. But every twitch of Gerry’s phone on his desk has him rushing over. He didn’t realize how many emails he got before he started to hope that a cute boy would text him.
Eventually - finally - Gerry gets a text from an unknown number.
[Unknown]
Is this Gerry?
Gerry bites his lip and avoids squealing. He clenches and unclenches his fists, trying to release some of that nervous energy.
He waits a moment before replying, just so it doesn’t look quite as much like he’s been waiting on tenterhooks for Michael to text him.
Certainly is.
Would this be the lovely Michael?
The reply comes quickly.
[Unknown]
That’s me!
Your sketch is very good.
I don’t know how you managed to make me look like that.
Gerry quickly saves Michael in his contacts before replying.
You’re fun to draw.
I’d love to do it again sometime.
[Michael]
You said over dinner?
Dinner it is.
My friend runs this really good Bangladeshi restaurant.
If you’re into that.
[Michael]
Sounds delicious! I would love to try that with you!
I don’t think I’ve ever had Bangladeshi.
Gerry bites his knuckle, trying not to jump up and down or scream or do something that would make the neighbors think he’s crazy. He breathes through his nose a few times.
That’s a damn shame.
I guess I better make a good impression :P
[Michael]
I think you’ve definitely done that already.
Did I win you over with the peppermint bark?
This time there’s a longer pause before Michael replies.
[Michael]
Maybe.
Peppermint bark always does the trick.
Gerry swallows nervously before picking his phone back up.
Is it a date?
[Michael]
It’s a date! :-)
Gerry bites his knuckle to prevent an even louder, more embarrassing noise coming from his lips. Of course Michael would use a smiley face like that.
He shoots off a date and time as fast as he can, finalizing the plans like it’s drying paint.
Gerry doesn’t get much work done that day.
Gerry calls Jon a grand total of three times in his nerves. The third time he calls, Jon tells him to stop acting like a twat.
“Being uptight and high strung was my thing, I thought,” Jon says over the phone.
Gerry huffs. “You don’t understand. It needs to be perfect.”
“It will be, unless you keep calling me to bug me while I’m trying to cook.”
“Fine. Fine. I’m hanging up now. Happy?”
“Exorbitantly so,” Jon says without a trace of humour to his tone.
Gerry hangs up with an eye roll.
The day before their date, Gerry’s phone buzzes with a notification.
[Michael]
Excited for our date tomorrow!!
Gerry faceplants straight into the sofa and screams into the pillow. God, he’s so cute. How is this person real?
Gertrude pats his head gingerly as she makes her way into the kitchen. She doesn’t comment any more than that, only leave Gerry to his twitterpated misery.
Gerry arrives ten minutes early to Jon’s restaurant, a tiny little thing tucked away between all the other commercial renters. It suits Jon. Far better than anything he would do with a stuffy English degree.
For whatever reason, Gerry wasn’t expecting to see Michael all dressed up. Yeah, okay, he spent an hour this morning trying on clothes. He didn’t really expect Michael to put in the same amount of effort. Or even half.
He looks gorgeous. Much as the button down shirts and blazers suit him, this looks like it was made for him. A grey-blue jumper that matches his eyes, a pair of jeans that hug his legs neatly, and a pair of sensible but worn Converse. The thing that really surprises Gerry is the earrings, silver studs in two different places on his earlobe. It’s not nearly as decorated as Gerry’s own ears and face, but it suits him remarkably well.
“Hey,” Gerry says, tamping down the anxiety to offer a little smile, “I was told you needed a scarf back.”
Michael smiles and takes the proffered scarf, wrapping it around his neck. “Thank you,” he says, with a sweet little shy smile.
“I like your earrings,” Gerry says, searching for something to say.
Michael’s face positively lights up with joy, hands fluttering up to brush against his earrings. “Thanks!” He says with nothing less than utter delight, “I hardly ever wear these unfortunately, it’s a wonder my piercings haven’t closed up.”
“They look gorgeous on you,” Gerry says, feeling brave enough to wink at Michael.
Michael flushes. “You look really good too.”
It’s not often in the wintertime that Gerry breaks out a crop top, but special occasions deserve special things. If only as a way to gauge what kind of person Michael is.
The kind that’s into crop tops, if the flickering glances at Gerry’s exposed stomach are any indication. Gerry suppresses a smile as they make their way to an open table.
Gerry pulls out Michael’s chair for him, because he wants to be a gentleman. It doesn’t take long for Jon to make his way over, bustling in with small menus.
“This is my friend Jon,” Gerry explains, “He runs this restaurant. Jon, this is Michael.”
“Nice to meet you,” Michael says.
Jon smiles, pleasant enough. “You as well.”
Jon walks Michael through the menu, sharing with him his own recommendations. He’s friendly and polite, lacking all the usual rancor Gerry has to deal with when the two of them interact. But then, friendship does that to people.
“He’s nice,” Michael says when Jon makes his way into the kitchen.
“He’s a total grump,” Gerry brushes him off, “But he’s a good guy. This restaurant softened him up a lot. You should have seen him fresh out of uni. Pretentious as all hell, couldn’t see anything for how big his head was. He’s mellowed a lot. Martin helps.”
“Martin?”
Gerry gestures over to the other person in the kitchen. “Jon’s boyfriend. He helps out now and then when he isn’t writing.”
“He’s a writer?” Michael straightens, interest perking in his eyes.
“Poet, I think. He mentioned a while ago that he’s trying to get a publishing deal. Dunno if he ever managed it.”
Michael nods, glancing again over at Martin and Jon, now engaged in a conversation as they dance around each other in the kitchen. “They’re cute together.”
“God, don’t you start. Those two are the stuff of romcoms. Bicker like an old married couple, engage in disgusting acts of PDA when I’m around, always thinking about each other. Whenever I’m out with Jon it’s just ‘Oh, Martin would like this.’ He’s incorrigible.”
Michael blushes. “That sounds really sweet.”
Gerry’s heart squeezes tight and he feels heat rise to his own cheeks. With a tentative hand, he places it on the table and reaches for Michael’s hand. He clasps it and squeezes, offering up a smile. “They’re not so bad.”
Michael ducks his head, a sweet little grin revealing his teeth. He’s beautiful.
Jon’s food is delicious, it always is. Gerry always lets Jon surprise him. He never disappoints.
“Tell me about what you’ve been writing lately,” Gerry asks when he finishes his meal.
Michael’s off in a flash, rapidly discussing with bright eyes the topic of his newest article. He gestures with his hands and stumbles over his words when he gets especially excited, hardly remembering to eat between all that he talks.
It’s a lovely dinner. Gerry loves to see Michael’s passion for his craft, and Michael is delightful conversation.
They laugh and they talk and they smile. Jon gives him a little thumbs up from behind the kitchen, so that’s about as good as Gerry’s going to get.
It feels good. Gerry hasn’t had a date like this in years. He’s not sure how long it’s been for Michael, but he seems to be enjoying it.
“Walk you back?” Gerry asks when they leave Jon’s restaurant, the crisp winter air greeting them none too gently.
“Sure, if you don’t mind,” Michael says with a little shrug.
“Not at all,” Gerry replies honestly.
Michael leads the way back to his flat, letting Gerry take his turn talking about his work this time. He’s been working on a set of cityscapes this time, working alongside a photographer friend to make it. It’s been a challenge, but one he enjoys.
He’s in the middle of talking about his last experience doing cityscapes when Michael draws to a halt in front of a building.
“This is me,” Michael says with a gesture to the front door.
Gerry sidles up next to Michael, offering up a smile. “I had a nice time tonight,” he says, because that’s what people say when they go on dates, right? Right.
Michael smiles honestly and brightly, with the whole of himself. It’s one of the things Gerry likes about him so much. “Me too.”
Gerry steps closer, emboldened. “I’d like to kiss you, if that’s okay.”
Michael’s eyes sparkle with delight and happiness. “I would love that.”
Gerry leans in and presses his lips to Michael’s. Michael tilts his head to meet him halfway, bending slightly. Gerry rests the tips of his fingers on Michael’s neck, not willing to press any harder. For whatever reason, he’d like to take this slow.
They have all the time in the world, after all.
Michael sighs very softly and quietly when they part. For a split second his eyes stay closed when they part. Gerry’s cheeks hurt with how hard he’s smiling. He takes in Michael’s blissed face and kisses him on the cheek, just quick enough to pull back and see Michael’s reaction.
“I’ll see you soon?” Gerry asks.
“Monday morning, right?”
Gerry nods. “Monday morning. You can plan our next date.”
“I look forward to it.”
“Goodnight, Michael.”
Before Gerry can step away, Michael pulls him into another kiss. This one is less gentle, but no less sweet for it. He pulls away and mutters a breathless, “Goodnight, Gerry.”
Gerry practically floats the whole way home. It takes him two tries to get his key in the door, too busy thinking about the feeling of Michael’s lips on his own.
“Welcome back,” Gertrude greets him as he walks through the door.
“Good evening, Gee Gee. I know you’re dying to know, don’t clamor all at once. Yes, the date went well. Yes, there will be a second one.”
Gertrude flips her page without looking up. “Goodie.”
“You’re such a charmer,” Gerry deadpans, “What would I do without my loving grandmother in my life?”
Gertrude sniffs. “Find someone else who can tolerate you.”
Good old Gertrude. Gerry sighs fondly and pats her hair before going into his room.
When he takes out his phone, Gerry’s greeted by a single message.
[Michael]
I’ll bring chocolate chip cookies on Monday.
Just for you.
Gerry’s heart squeezes. He holds the phone in his hand and can barely bring himself to reply.
It strikes him then how happy he is. How, despite the shitty rent and the not-quite stable income from his painting, he wouldn’t change a single thing about his life. He could never be happier than in this moment, in this world.