Prose On Your Tongue

good morning, you



“Dan,” Nes’ jeans-covered knee nudges my thigh and I quickly bring my attention to his face, all white with these freckles dancing across his cheekbones and sloped nose. When I notice him, his round, sea eyes brighten under the crackling of the fire before us; I almost can’t breathe. “You’re not talking again, dude. What’s up?”

I look up momentarily to watch as Sam tries to chug an entire beer can while Bee is sitting close to him, raising and lowering her fists sharply while chanting, “chug, chug chug,” excitedly. Her short, choppy haircut makes a mysterious shadow behind her log when the fire blares its wildest.

“Sorry,” I practically choke out. He’s too close and even with the smell of burning wood filling my lungs I can still smell his detergent and spicy deodorant. “I’ve just been . . .—” I choose my words carefully. “—lost in thought.” I look straight into his face, daring myself, and try to tell him exactly what with my expression, but he’s a steel wall and, if he understands, gives nothing away.

I watch those plump cherry lips of his - all sweet-mouthed and pure - move as he speaks. “You’re always thinkin’.” He points to his own curly, golden-brown head of hair. “But I know you always have something to say. You just don’t say it.”

When Nes is alone, with me and only me, I see this philosophical and soft-spoken side that’s been peeled back, I feel, just for me. His eyes turn a shade of dark blue and his entire attention is for me; his husky voice has this little flutter to it, like he wants me to carefully process his words before I respond.

Smiling sheepishly, I cleverly respond, “And you always have a lot to say; but it’s never enough, is it?” I’m surprised at how low and sultry I say it and feel a small bubble of pride fill inside of me.

His enthralled smile falters some, twitching at the edges, as he ponders what I said. There’s this quick expression that crosses his face before he relaxes that I knew if I didn’t look close enough, I would’ve missed. It was this weak and uncertain flicker, this millisecond of vulnerability that makes me really wonder, truly wonder, if what I said hit home. But he’s quickly back to himself, giving a laugh and leaning back, more casual, on the log, as he breathes, “You always have some poetic shit to say, huh?” He looks me in the face as he says the word poet, and I feel like he knows, he knows.

“Sorry,” I say.

“Don’t apologize,” he says. The fire lights one half of his face and I swear I see this fond glint in that single, brightened eye.

As our composures crumble amongst one another, Bee rushes over, half drunk and feeling a little too loose, and drops herself in my lap. I instantly strengthen my thighs to keep her from falling, a little startled. “Stop talking so much and let’s get drunk!” she squeals, kicking her legs up like an impatient child. “Drink, Dan, drink!”

I start to say no, but then I feel like, what the hell - I haven’t gotten drunk in a while and I don’t really want to feel myself tonight; not with Nes’ face and calculated words burned permanently in my brain.

Three beers in and 30 minutes passing, I realize that it was a horrible mistake. I’m hollering with Sam and Bee and Nes and we’re dancing around the campfire like we’re trying to summon some kind of strange spirit. Bee trips and falls in the dirt, and we’re all laughing; Sam rushes Nes and picks up him by the legs, and we’re all laughing; I race Sam to the nearest tree, and we’re all crying, we’re laughing so hard. I feel so fucking light, like I can challenge anything and anyone and get away unscathed. So, while Sam and Bee wrestle on the ground like five year-olds, I grab Nes around his waist and pull him in, clinging onto him so tightly that he will have to fight to get away.

“What, Dan?” he asks, surprisingly in a nurturing-like tone, and I think fuck you, because that makes me not want to stop, not want to let go. I rock him in my arms, feeling the way a layer of muscle protects his ribs from damage and how broad his shoulders are in my hold, and I feel like crying because god - Nes is so human; he’s breathing and he’s allowing himself to be rocked and his curls are tickling the bottom of my chin and he’s so fucking human. I’m in love with a living, breathing person and wow this feels great, so good, even if I know I won’t get what I want in the end.

That’s okay, though - that’s how things are supposed to be. That’s how I imagined my life being. Except I never imagined Nes being in my arms and being so goddamn human. I never imagined it being Nes. Not Nes, anyone but Nes. And I breathe a sigh of relief, because if I have to fall in love with anybody, it’s great that it's sweet-mouthed, sweet-eyed Nes.

So, “Tanner,” I gasp, lungs bare, and I continue to hug and rock him side to side. Bee is hollering and Sam is grunting, but it’s Nes I feel, Nes I know, Nes I want and can’t have. He mummers my name back, asks what’s wrong, and holds me by my waist, and I feel the warmth of the palm of his hands through my thin tee - it makes my skin prickle with need. “You’re . . . good,” I begin, stupidly. “Real good.”

“I wish,” is all he says, and he lets me, in my drunken stupor, hold him for as long as I’d like.

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