He had.
‘That's either attentive or stalking.’
‘Thin line.’ He sipped. ‘You know, for someone who insists this is 'just sex,' you've spent quite a long time looking at my painting.’
‘The painting is good.’
‘The painting is you.’
‘The painting is your interpretation of me.’
‘Yeah. That's how painting works.’
‘Would you paint me differently now?’
Rory considered this. His mug rested on his knee. The studio light was still on, hard and white, His bare chest in the light, the tattoo, the ring, the charcoal streak across his cheekbone. A man sitting on his own studio floor in his jeans with tea and a question.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You're starting to turn around.’
When Neil looked at his tea, the surface trembled. His hand hadn't steadied, not from the cold.
‘I'm not turning around. I'm standing in your studio drinking tea after...’
‘After having sex with me. You can say it.’
‘After having sex with you.’
‘And before that you drove here. You came back.’ Rory's voice was even. Laying out the sequence, not pushing. ‘That's turning, Neil. Whether you call it that or not.’
Neil drank his tea. It was builder's. Strong, milky. He'd paid attention to how Neil took it. Never asked. Just noticed.
‘I should go,’ he said.
‘You should.’
‘This was...’
‘If you say “just sex” I’ll believe you said it wrong as well.’ A beat. Then, quieter: ‘Please.’
The please hit harder than anything else he'd said. Rory didn't say please. Rory said grand and brilliant and fancy a coffee and see you round. Neil put the mug down. Looked at Rory. Green eyes in the white light. Patient. Waiting. Without pushing and without pretending.
‘It wasn't just sex,’ Neil said. Quietly. Eyes on his hands.
‘I know.’
‘I don't know what it is.’
‘That's enough. For now.’
Neil dressed. As Rory walked him to the door, the goodbye was different from last week. A kiss, not desperate, not a prelude. A recognition. His mouth on Rory's mouth, brief and warm, the ring clicking against his lip, and the taste of tea and the irreplaceable taste of the man himself.
‘See you, Neil.’
‘See you.’
He drove home. The flat was dark. The fridge was dark. The tree with BRAVE in purple, invisible in the unlit kitchen, but he knew it was there.
7
