Wax

Five

A/N: So remember when Leroy gave Vanilla the first draft of his cookbook before it was even published? Handwritten and handbound? Well... :) He's gotten a deal with GLACE and his very own editor. If you'd like to read his cookbook and learn some recipes to impress your special one, hehe head on to my profile. I'll be updating that every Sunday as well.

I'm sorry this one was late; for some reason it was fairly hard to write as well and although it turned out longer than expected... well. I hope the emotions are complex enough to warrant some good-ass a n g s t. 

Enjoy.

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I recall Jaeger a couple months back, saying something along the lines of thirty seconds being the maximum time one was allowed to stand in front of the condom shelf in a Tesco's Express. I'd exceeded that threefold.

The rest of the store was empty either way, so the only thing keeping me on the move was knowing he was somewhere down the street, upstairs in his hotel room, taking a shower. Waiting.

Size wasn't exactly the problem; I knew mine, just not his preference for function or comfort. These things should be bought together, with both sides playing a part in making the decision, but here I was scrolling through my phone for reviews. They didn't help very much. I ended up with three different boxes in my size. Also the only ones in my size. That, or I could have opted for what they were marketing as tighter fit but, whatever. Start slow.

Other reasons for exceeding the thirty seconds had to do with fire thoughts burning low. Heat waves; they distort straight lines and clear images, rising up and pushing things out of the way inside. We had the entire bottle of cognac and an hour or so to finish it. Two to three glasses later, he was pouring himself another glass with his eyes glazed over the candlelight, raised to his lips—melted. I finished that glass for him only because his smiles were back to gentle innocence and that was a clear sign of his disarming. A lowered guard.

He wandered between the lines of clear- and fuzzy-headed nearing the end, tipsy, and with his top button that had somehow come undone. I'd never seen him with his top button undone, even back then. It was always up and in order. Like it was an unspoken rule of his. Half the time, I was staring at it—the triangle of skin between his collar bones, flanked by the white fabric of his dress shirt. The pleasant past was what we talked about and it was good. Words flowed. As they do with fond memories. Nice things are always easier to talk about; have a good laugh over.

He hadn't even seemed to notice the button for the rest of the evening and when it was time to leave, he'd slipped on his coat and left his vest unbuttoned too—guard completely lowered. As though cognac made him forget to be proper. I for some reason found something very wrong about him looking like that, at least in the back of my head, something wasn't sitting right. It wasn't a feeling I could explain. I considered making up some sort of excuse to get him to the bathroom, wait till he's sober enough to get into a cab but really. I didn't want the night to end.

The goodbye was all I could think about, going down the spiral stairs with him leading the way. Disappointment kept the flames extinguished but it was on impulse that I'd asked. Tried for something more.

No shit, though. It surprised me when that was exactly what he gave in return.

More; it came. The immense heat I never thought I could feel from the surface of a frozen lake. Of course, reaching out to skim fingers across its ripples was an entirely different thing from the lake, itself, lapping against the shore where I was—reaching out to me. The way his head had tilted with a step, closing the distance. Red dusting the pale skin below his eyes. The corner of the keycard running down the front of my shirt, an almost of his touch. His fingers—fuck.