not as anticipated
technological breakthroughs
for smallpea
That morning, with Zito on the couch, nemo parciagarba and Tim Hudson taking care, that was six months after they’d gotten started.
Mulder’s hand on Zito’s face to wake him up, Zito messy-legged over the arm of the couch, broken-toyed, and Mulder hadn’t been processing too well, his head pounding. He wanted to kiss Zito but something stalled him, Chavez clanking around in the kitchen, a dream of green apples.
Zito surfaced. Zito smiled at him. Mulder figured, this from now on, okay. Okay.
Earlier, Hudson had hidden Zito’s keys in the freezer and everyone had gone home, and Chavez had clapped Mulder on the arm and said, “This is, like, exactly how I hoped my life would turn out,” before going to bed. After the party, the walls of the house sank down around like blankets, and Mulder had gone out into the living room, sat down on the floor next to the couch. Next to Zito’s busted springs and torn-out batteries, damp-haired and heavily asleep, his mouth cocked open.
Mulder was just gonna sit there for a minute, get himself together. Maybe if Zito woke up, they’d do something about it, but Zito was miles under. Mulder was tired too, drunk probably, thinking about Chavez saying to him, exactly how.
Zito had never talked in his sleep, but Mulder found himself listening for it a lot. He wanted to be the sole witness to Zito’s life. He wanted to know everything.
Mulder put his hand up on the couch, wedged it under Zito’s shoulder. Zito sighed and shifted, bone and muscle through T-shirt and skin, and Mulder had had his mouth there once or twice or a dozen times, on Zito’s shoulder blade. The drunk spun through him.
He thought that if they were ever threatened, if someone came with evidence or accusation, he could use the violence at the heart of him, put it to work. Zito would be no good in that situation, Zito would cringe and cover his face. But Mulder could take down walls, all on his own. This whole thing with Zito kept him too peaceful, made him simmer and bite under his skin.
Zito always looked like a kid when he slept.
It’d been like this for six months, to the day. He remembered because it had been New Year’s Day in Hollywood.
New Year’s. Lit up like chrome and hungover, Mulder and Zito had watched football and barely managed dry cereal, yawning with pops and snaps, cradling their heads in their hands. Mulder had appreciated Zito’s silence and the way his hands looked pale as glass, the way a spoon hung out of his mouth, silver and white.
Almost everything, really. Zito had small brown shadows under his eyes, his forehead clear. He rolled his eyes at commercials and scratched at his stomach. The whole world was in recovery, new year, day one. Mulder had glanced over at Zito and caught him studying a scratch on the underside of his arm.
Zito couldn’t remember when it had happened, held out his arm to Mulder with a lost look on his face. Mulder’s stomach turned over slowly at the sight of it, taking Zito’s arm in his hands. He couldn’t remember either, just Zito drunk-bright and cackling with laughter, falling against him in the kitchen.
It had been a strange night, clocks counting down like bombs, pink and blue drinks filling Mulder’s hands. Zito had been a constant, and Mulder held onto his belt, smiling uncertainly at the other people. Mulder thought that maybe he had had his fingers hooked in Zito’s belt and his thumb hooked in his own, at one point.
The scratch wasn’t much, really, shallow and short, and Mulder told Zito not to worry about it, shit happened, roll. Zito’s face twisted and his teeth pressed into his lower lip, not satisfied. Mulder sorta smirked at him, slid his thumb along the side of the scratch, amazing clean soft skin like maybe he’d fallen asleep again.
Thinking, roll.
Zito looked exhausted, chewed-up and solemn with his eyes down. Mulder tried to remember if he’d thanked Zito for asking him to come out for New Year’s, for the pink and blue drinks, for the cereal and aspirin.
Zito was worried, though, talking about gangrene and tetanus and blood diseases. He said, “I could die, you know.”
Mulder laughed. He looked over at Zito scowling at him, petulant set to his mouth, crushed bedhead hair. Zito all roughed up by the night and Mulder with his affection for the aftermath.
Zito said, “Quit laughing at me, you son of a bitch,” and Mulder laughed harder. Zito punched him, pushed his fist down on Mulder’s chest and Mulder asked in half-breaths, “All you got?” and Zito kissed him then hard and deep like whatever the fuck was happening in Mulder’s chest, and yeah, yeah.
First day of the year. They matched it, brand-new.
*
Hey! That went backwards! What in the hell.
you want one all your own?