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Autumn comes with a cold, face-cutting breeze in the morning and an unbearable warmth in the afternoon, the sounds of crushing leaves and the promise of Halloween, but nothing like the sweet scent of cinnamon and black tea that Nathalie makes almost every two weeks at five o’clock.
The timer beeps and she taps it down to shut it. With a pair of tartan gloves, she carefully takes the tray out of the oven, setting it down on the countertop. She takes the gloves out and mixes lemon juice and icing sugar to form the icing, which she spreads over the pastry. She’s careful not to let the buns or icing touch her new sweater, personally made by Gabriel: a soft, slightly oversized garment, with a loose turtleneck and the best shade of navy.
Speaking of the devil, he steps in, drawn by the smell. He’s wearing his own beige sweater and maroon slacks. His hands instinctively reach for her waist, slightly thickened by the sweater, and they set down below her abdomen, now much flatter than his. He can’t help but feel a tiny bit envious. It dissipates quickly when she leaves a soft kiss on the tip of his nose.
“Hi,” she murmurs, parting the cinnamon rolls with a metal spatula. “Came here only to see me, right?”
Gabriel chuckles and squeezes her.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe not,” she says, slapping his hand away from the tray. He emits a small whine. “You’ve been a child lately, you know.”
Gabriel smirks, and sets his hands lower than before, pulling her hips slightly against his. “You sure?”
She grumbles. “A teenager,” she snickers. “A hormonal one.”
He laughs and pats her back with both hands. “Want me to make more tea? Yours is probably cold by now.”
She smiles. “If you may, ted.”
Ted. She’d started calling him her teddy bear not too long ago, but decided it could be shortened. First to teddy, and then to ted.
Gabriel gulps down the cold tea —which was pretty disgusting—, takes out another mug, and sets the water to boil. In the meantime, he selects two more teabags, not without eyeing the pastries every few seconds. Every time, he gets a disapproving glance.
“They’re still hot.”
“Awh.”
Eventually, he turns off the stove and slowly brews both mugs, ensuring Nathalie’s reach half an inch to the rim and his, only slightly more than halfway through. He takes the milk from the fridge and fills his cup, then drops two spoonfuls of sugar and stirs.
When he places both mugs down on the table, Nathalie plates a roll. For him.
They sit, and she hands him the plate. He grins, and though it’s brief, she tries to save the view in her memory.
She has a sip of her tea. It’s perfect; bitter and almost too hot. Gabriel’s, not so much. The cold milk has made it lean towards lukewarm, and the sugar, sweet. It’s his perfect. So is the cinnamon roll. He takes a bite, another, and sets it down.
“It’s wonderful,” he smiles in a mouthful. Nathalie giggles.
“I’m glad.”
A few minutes pass, punctuated by his munching and her sipping.
“Hormonal teen,” he reminisces, looking at her with a knowing grimace. He sucks a bit of icing from the tip of his index finger. Nathalie laughs.
“Yes, hormonal. Two mighty h’s; horny and hungry.”
It’s Gabriel’s turn to laugh.
“Hungry? I haven’t been that hungry lately.”
Nathalie pushes her lip corner back, squinting slightly. “You sure?...”
He nods. “Very.”
“...because you’ve been very vehemently denying to wear your vest,” she muses. He scowls. “The one that’s fitted. Mhm.”
His hands fumble and he blushes. “I just don’t like it anymore,” he fumes. He makes a lovely little pout.
“You don’t like it or you can’t button it?” she asks innocently. He mocks her.
“Mimimimi.”
She laughs. “I see.”
He suddenly looks very sadly at the cinnamon roll. “It’s not funny…” he pouts. Nathalie makes a comprehensive expression and holds his hand, smiling lovingly.
“It’s not anything, darling,” she murmurs. He looks at his lap. “I don’t mind it at all.”
“...You don’t?”
“I like it,” she says with a squeeze to his hand. He looks at her. “I was worried about you. You looked like you’d break in half with a gust of wind.
And you didn’t eat anything.”
His eyes trail along the kitchen, ultimately landing on hers. “You sure?”
“Yes, Gabriel, sure,” she reassures him. “Ted.”
She giggles; she loves her new nickname. Her because she made it. He sketches a soft smile. He isn’t used to being compared to a teddy bear —and whatever the implications might be—, but oh well.
“Ted,” he repeats.
“Mhm,” she nods. “My ted.”
“Yours.”
He finishes the rest of the cinnamon roll.
Maybe changes aren’t so bad.
.
Nathalie cups his cheeks and gently guides his head down, inviting the meeting of their lips. He makes a soft noise; not quite a sigh, not quite a moan, but close to both, and his hands reach for her waist. In turn, he guides her closer. The soft noises of their kissing are nothing to the unbearable beating of his heart, reverberating through his skull, giving him the loveliest blush she’ll ever see. One of her hands glides down his shoulder, a little broader than months ago, and strokes up and down very slowly, creeping up his neck and down his arm. Her tongue warms the inside of his mouth, drawing subtle sighs and sweet noises from him, which she promises to remember forever. His hands reach lower to the widest point of her hips and pull her closer —maybe not her as a whole but a specific place; maybe slightly pressing it against his—, and now it’s her turn to sigh.
There’s a string of saliva when they pull apart, just enough to speak. He’s panting softly. God, how she likes it.
“Up?” she whispers; upstairs is their bedroom. He nods and takes her hand.
He hates that awkward moment of just… walking up the stairs, and presses his lips —still tasting like hers— together. His grip on her hand is tight, hurried.
When they reach the door, Gabriel pulls her in much gentler than he’d like; he leans against the door to close it and hastily resumes their activity.
His back touches the mattress not too long after; she pushes him down by his shoulders and her knees press against his hips. Her kisses start trailing off onto his cheeks, then down his jaw, and lower. She leaves soft bites and nibbles and open-mouthed kisses, and again, from him drawing out soft moans that she’ll cherish forever. She looks at him; he looks feverish, way too red in the cheeks, so much so the warmth spills down to his neck and the tips of his ears, and she bites her lip. He’s gorgeous —always—, but especially, especially like this. The inspection doesn’t last longer than three seconds and she resumes her task, now leaving a hickey in the hollow of his throat, causing his thighs to clench together. She smiles. He always tries to be as silent as he can, but not always does he succeed. Her lips softly meet his again; her hand trails down his chest and his abdomen as they kiss and then up again.
She chuckles into the kiss, cupping his soft cheeks, and he kisses her back. She pulls apart ever so slightly, to which he protests with a small, childish whine. She giggles and takes his mouth with hers again. He sighs and makes that soft noise she likes so much.
Her lips trail off again, but this time, she wants to reach further than the hollow of his throat; she starts unbuttoning his shirt.
The first few buttons draw nothing more than more sighs and breathy moans from Gabriel, her lips mapping out the soft skin of his chest and shoulders with hot kisses, nibbles and hickeys, leaving his skin wet and red or various somewheres, a lovely shade of purple.
But when she comes up to undo the next button, his hand stills her wrist.
“No…” he barely breathes out, his voice thin and low.
Nathalie’s eyebrows pinch up together, relaxing her hand as she takes his. “What’s wrong?” she murmurs, inches away from his flushed, feverish face. He can only shake his head.
“Did I make you uncomfy? Do you want to stop?”
His eyes burn.
She guides him up, sitting him against the bedframe, surrounded by soft pillows. She cups his face. He looks down, his lips pressing together. “Gabriel..?”
He hides his face in the crook of her neck, just like he did moments before.
She caresses circles on his back, which subtly jumps up and down as he sniffles and weeps. His messy, dishevelled hair rubs against her jaw, and she regrets whatever she did to make him so anguished.
“Hey, talk to me…” she tries again, her voice soft, hushed and mellow. His hands cover his face; his arms cover his chest.
For some minutes, she let him sob ever so quietly into her shoulder, massaging soft caresses on his back, slipping her hand beneath his shirt to stroke him better, kissing the top of his head.
“It’s okay,” she whispered, “you can tell me what’s wrong.”
Eventually, the sobbing subsided. He didn’t look at her as he said, “I… I don’t want—” he hiccuped, “—I don’t want you to see me…” he murmured. “I— I’m sorry…”
Nathalie hugs him tighter. “No, no, don’t apologize…” she comforts him; “what do you mean?
Why can’t I see you?”
He looked at her pathetically, his eyes red-rimmed and his cheeks still flushed and puffy, just like his lips.
“I don’t want you to…” he murmured again, his voice a fragile, fragile thread.
She runs her fingers through his hair.
“Did I do something wrong?”
He shakes his head.
She kisses his forehead, cupping his face. Their gazes meet, and her heart breaks in little pieces, watching him pout like a small child.
“Can I kiss you?” she asks softly.
He kisses her, just as softly as she asked to. It lasts a couple seconds, and he pulls away. Her thumb strokes his plush cheek, testing the soft give of the skin.
It occurs to her that it might be… that.
“Is it because you…” She doesn’t want to say it. She doesn’t want to say it. She can’t say it, but she tries: “because you put on a little weight?” she asks carefully. She supposes she’s right because he starts crying again. “I’m so sorry, no…” she murmurs, hugging him against her.
“I’m sorry,” he weeps.
“Don’t be, sweetheart, don’t be,” she murmurs against his forehead. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”
He inhales shakily. “I just don’t want you to see that…” he apologizes, hiccuping every couple seconds. She kisses his forehead.
“It’s alright.”
They stay like that for a couple minutes. His hiccuping, though resisting, subsides slightly. He rests his cheek against her neck until she asks, “Can I kiss you again?”
It’s her careful tone that makes him giggle and nod, this time cupping her cheek to guide her. He inhales again, shakily.
They pull apart.
“And again?”
Their lips meet newly, this time it’s a soft peck. She repeats this ritual until his mood lifts.
Slowly, between the kisses and the asks, she moves her hand from his cheek —though one stays there— to his shoulder, squeezing softly, caressing, stroking; then his arm, his chest, and ultimately, the side of his waist. It is soft, yes; it forms a plush curve, the love handle, yes; his shirt does ride up just a little bit, yes; his shirt looks a little —maybe not just a little— tight, yes; but it’s also the prettiest thing in the world.
He seems to notice because he sucks his stomach in and softly asks, “Please don’t touch me there…”
She pouts. “But it’s the loveliest place to touch…”
He blushes, looking right into her eyes. “Really?”
She nods. “The best.”
He sketches a bashful smile, and exhales quietly and fully. “I…”
“That’s why it’s called a ‘love handle’,” she explains, her voice low and mellow, “because you handle it with love.”
It’s not exactly true but it’s close.
The beat of his heart reverberates through her chest and its warmth slowly creeps in, though she’s still got her clothes on. She holds him by the waist, they lie back together, and she notices how much farther away his feet reach.
“Mhm,” she guides him to continue.
“I think it’ll take some time,” he murmurs. Her hand’s still resting against his waist and its softness, “for me to… um… get used to it.”
“It’s okay,” she whispers. “I’ll always be here.”
He pouts, looking at her lovingly.
“Thank you.”
They rub their noses together.
“I love you,” she smiles.
“I love you more,” he responds, and they kiss.
“No, I do.”
“No, I do.”
Some minutes later, they end up kissing again. She buttons up his shirt.
She pushes the covers above them and curls herself against him.
“I love you.”
He sinks onto her. “I love you, too.”