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Devon, his artist, had drawn a buttercup. Not dried, but alive. In full glorious bloom.
Burne knew he was crying. He felt the heat spill over. He didn’t care. He got out, “Devon…”
Devon looked up at almost the same second, and said, “You said you love me—oh, no, are you—”
“I’m fine—or, no, I’m not, fuck, you’re so—I love you so much, and you said you’d—you want to be here with me, you said—”
Devon dove across the sofa, caught Burne’s face in both hands, and kissed him. Fiercely, with conviction, beyond any doubt.
They toppled back onto the couch, falling into each other. Devon’s eyes were wet, eyelashes forming long streaks of night. On top, he kissed Burne again, made a familiar happy noise about the rub of the beard, did it once more. Then waved Burne’s letter, clutched in one hand, between them. “You apologized!”
“Was I not supposed to—”
“But I was apologizing to you! You said—” Devon paused to smooth paper-folds. “You said you always want to listen to me, you’d try to be better about not talking if I didn’t want to talk, and about making assumptions just because I hadn’t said something, and you were sorry you’d done that to me, you said—you said maybe we could try writing things down, if it’s important, if that’s easier—you thought about what we could do. To make things better.”
“If you want,” Burne breathed. On his back on the couch, he had Devon atop him, he had a declaration of love in one hand, he had the leaping noisy redoubling of rain all around them. “I thought, if you might still want this…us…if there was a chance you did, if writing you a letter worked…”
“Of course it worked. It wasouridea.” Devon shifted positions, which meant his body moved against Burne’s in interesting ways; Burne put both arms around him, holding on. “You thought about a future. In which we work things out.”
“I love you,” Burne said. “I said it in the letter. And now. Out loud. I’ll text it if you want. Every way I can say it.”
“With heart-shaped sea-stones, and buttercups, and learning how to know each other.” Devon’s eyes danced like stars. His hair was getting into his face, a curve of dark seashell, a curlicue, a line of ink.
Burne moved a hand, tucked the longest strand back for him. Basked in silk and sleekness against his skin. He said, “I’m glad you’re okay. Thanks for telling me.”
“I want to tell you. If I am. Or if I’m not. I should have, this time.”
“You needed some space.” More hair-petting. “I shouldn’t’ve pushed. I’ll work on it.”
“We both will. About the car—you were more than half right. I don’t actually drive much. I do worry about it—not so much me spontaneously feeling unwell, but the build-up of stress on the road. I try not to do long drives.”
“But you can manage, around here. Local.” He touched Devon’s cheekbone, traced the arch. “Because you can do just about anything.”
“For you I can.”
“For us, you mean.”
“I want you to stay,” Devon said. “I want all the mornings, tea and coffee, rain and sunlight, my heart being yours. I love you.”
“Maybe,” Burne said, “we could get a cat, eventually, I know it’s not a unicorn, but cats are sort of magical anyway. We could write down lists. Of names. Including your terrible puns.”
“Yes.” Devon’s entire face was alight with it. “Yes.”
“We’re not too far from my campus. Even after this sabbatical’s over. It wouldn’t be a bad drive, me going to work.”
“You’d stay.”
“I could.”
“You like my house.”
“I love your house.”
“I hoped you would.”
“And maybe you can show me your favorite winery and tell me about your next genius project, and maybe even show me around a museum or a library or a conservatory? If there’s something you can, um, drive us to? I would totally like a tour, y’know, from the actual architect.” He ran a hand through Devon’s hair again. The rain sang, splashing beyond glass, pouring into the ocean. Sea and sky, the balcony and the windows, his work and Devon’s. “Seeing the art, with the artist right there.”
“You always called me an artist,” Devon said. “From the start. But I think you are, with words.” He turned his head, kissed Burne’s hand. “With people.”
“I’m so glad you wrote to me,” Burne said. “I’m just—I’m so glad you did. You were right, I was lonely, and you found me.”
“That’s both of us,” Devon said, and leaned down, letter still on one hand, to brush a kiss across Burne’s mouth, which answered with delight. “I’m so very glad you wrote back.”
THE END
