Utterly Forgettable | MM Romance | Complete

Eighteen: I'd Prefer My Neck Unwrung

Facts of life: the sun would always rise in the east, and Emery would always cook dinner. Long gone were Josh's takeout days, of differently-shaped boxes that piled up in the garbage. It wasn't that Emery had an innate talent for the art of cooking; it certainly wasn't that he'd discovered a hidden cache of patience. It was only that he wanted to, was willing to take the time to do it, and that something in Josh would always melt at sitting down to taste whatever he'd ventured into making that day, regardless of it being dubbed a success or a failure.

The line had been drawn at coffee, popcorn, and, today, hot chocolate. Josh had to have something he could still do in the house, after all. He'd become proficient at reading Emery's myriad expressions, and today it was clear Emery had a topic he needed to discuss with him. He'd also become an expert on how to act around him, which meant he knew it was better to wait Emery out than to attempt to coax anything out of him.

Emery sat at the counter, laptop in its perpetual spot, glancing out of the corner of his eye as Josh made his stovetop hot chocolate. It wasn't their usual comfortable silence, this thing between them. It was weighed down by whatever Emery wanted to say, and Josh didn't quite have the hang of irrelevant conversation when it was forced, so he did nothing to dispel it.

He was turning off the stove when Emery closed the lid on his laptop.

"Josh..."

"Yes?" Damn it, he'd been too quick to reply. Now Emery knew that he knew there was something to be talked about, and everything was doubly awkward.

"As someone who's been financing my stay here without complaint, I feel like there's something I ought to ask your permission for."

Money. Of course it was about money. Emery couldn't even breathe without feeling indebted to him, and Josh hated it, hated the perceived loss of power that came with it for Emery.

"You don't have to ask my permission for a damn thing." His eyes were fierce. "Not a damn thing. Whatever it is you need just let me know how much. You don't have to justify anything."

Emery looked stricken. "Of course I do. I—"

"How much?" Josh had unlocked his phone and opened his banking app, prepared to transfer whatever money — Emma's money — Emery needed.

"I'm not asking you for money, Josh," Emery said, exasperated, "Just that you listen to me!"

Oh. Damn, this part would never not be awkward, would it? Josh busied himself with pouring chocolate in two mugs and adding the marshmallows in to hide his discomfort.

"I'm sorry for assuming. It seemed like you were, and I didn't want it to be weird and, well. Then I went and made it weird. What is it you want to talk to me about?"

"I feel that I should spend the majority of my time pursuing work that will be financially compensated," Emery began, stilted. "And yet I find myself wishing to spend a few hours a week on work that isn't. But, then, if you're the one making that possible, it stands to reason that I'd be volunteering your work instead of mine, by proxy. It doesn't seem fair."

It didn't come as a surprise anymore, how Emery kept finding new and creative ways of breaking Josh's heart. Josh placed a finished mug of hot chocolate in front of Emery and moved to the couch, hoping he'd follow. Emery didn't disappoint.

"So you're saying," Josh began, blowing on his hot chocolate so it would get to drinking temperature faster, "that you want to do volunteer work and decided you'd need my permission?"

Emery seemed to find no flaw in that logic, his inner code aligning perfectly with it. "Certainly. If I were spending that time seeking other paying clients I could be making larger strides towards not being a burden on you."