Yours Truly (Petekey)

VII.

Written by HellaBrendon

Michael James Way

I am obsessed with touching Pete.

His skin is a few shades darker than mine and though his hands are rough, parts of them scarred from what I can only assume is his apprenticeship with his father, I appreciate the feel of them. I awake before the sun has risen, surrounded in the comfort of darkness, and try to get closer than close to him. His hair, soft and disheveled as it should be, is constantly pet and I convince myself that his is normal.

Last night, I know, is not what is expected of me. Kissing him felt out of my control, as if I was unaware of the movement and its effects until it had happened, but I am thankful for it. I am thankful for those moments in which I did not worry about who I was, who he was or who would be watching. I was just a person and he, too, just a person. It was different.

Pete stays asleep for a long time while I watch him, run my fingers through his hair the way I remember my mother combing through my own all those many years ago. I render the feeling of skin beneath my fingers to my memory – the way it looks and feels and moves. Some part of me wishes there was a way in which I could immortalize this moment.

I remember the angle of his face, the shadows cast over his face, the slight freckles that trace over his nose. He is not fair but I find myself mesmerized by the shade of skin, the hues, tints and shades which make up the perfect man. I can imagine him in the sunlight, simply walking through the town streets – covering him freckles, painting him with all its rays. For the first time in my life, I appreciate the sun.

Too often I am thinking about kissing him – looking at his lips for far longer than I should. When I catch a glimpse of the sunrise, of a light pink shadow chasing away the navy-blue darkness in which Pete and I were only people, it occurs to me that it is no longer last night. It is no longer yesterday. It is today – the day in which Pete and I are not only people, but men from different classes. It is uncomfortable to pull myself away from him.

I still sit, for far longer than I should, sometimes daring to look at him but mostly avoiding him. I have to mentally prepare myself for the effects of last night, for leaving the ball after a single dance, for leaving with a tailors' son, for not coming back. And I know that no matter what I've done, I have never received a lashing quite like the one I'll receive when I arrive home.

Not only have I squandered a great birthday celebration, I have wasted the opportunity in which to meet a suitable bride and to charm her. I do not look at Pete again after this thought occurs to me. The mere thought of having to explain the situation to my father terrifies every part of my body. I have to accept my fate – the situation in which I have ordered my own execution. There is no escape.

My stomach, previously filled with butterflies, is taught and empty and I can feel the underlying tension that came from the admittance to myself that there is no way around myself. I take a deep, shaky breath and try to logic my way out of this.

First things first, I need to find a suitable woman. Not the perfect woman, not one who I can hold a conversation with, just a suitable one. One from a wealthy family with enough social etiquette to make me seem approachable, one who is quite agreeable amongst people of my class. Thoughts of Pete plague my judgement like fleas.

The next thing I have to do is forget last night, thoughts of this may not intervene in my marriage. I am not my father and I do not plan on ruining my reputation with a sham of a marriage, no matter how much I hate the arrangement. Pete – the only man I have ever kissed, the only person I ever wanted to kiss – may not interrupt my reputable future.