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The bastard had trapped me. “It wouldn’t because you’re not actually that self-righteous.”
“I thought you just said—”
“Ignore me. How’s your barszcz?”
“Delicious. What’s in it?”
I cast my mind grudgingly through a lifetime of family Christmases, trailing irrevocably behind me like a piece of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of a shoe. “Beetroot, carrots, onions, spices. The usual.”
“It’s kind of earthy and sweet and tart all at the same time.”
“There’s this base you have to make from fermented beets. Youcan also just use vinegar or lemon juice. But obviously my mum wouldnever. And she’s not even Polish.”
“She seems really supportive in general.”
“Mm.” I hadn’t intended to say more. But then I did. “My dad has this big family. I think he misses being away from them so much.”
“You’re his family too.”
I offered a sharp little smile. “Yes, but I’m a crap son.”
“If you were that crap, he wouldn’t have come looking for you on a boat.”
“Maybe that’s part of why I’m crap.”
“Whatever you say, Marius.”
Standing, Leo took the bowl back to the sink and cleaned it, along with the pan and the Tupperware—adding it to the growing pile of Tupperware my mum was surely going to use as an excuse to visit again. It felt a little odd to imagine as, to be fair, most of the things Mum took as normal were odd to imagine. But she would return when I would not. When I had no reason to.
“I should probably wash,” said Leo, breaking into whatever nonsense my mind was churning up. “But we’re running low on water.”
“How can you tell?”
“Well, I’ve been shovelling snow awhile. That tends to have an impact.”
I gave him an unamused look, which only made him smile. “About the water.”
“Just sort of practice? And the boat is sitting a bit higher at the front than the back.” In response to my bewildered blink, he went on, “The tank is under the bow.”
“Surely you can go without a shower for a single night.”
“I certainly can. But I can’t imagine you’d like it much.”
My mouth made a half-protesting sound. Not a particularly convincing one because he was right. Hard-worked man was sexy in the moment. I wasn’t sure I wanted to sleep beside it.
Leo disappeared into the bathroom, and I remained at the dinette, my thoughts not quite in turmoil, just impossible to pin down. I might as well have cast them amongst the snowflakes. Let them drift on unseen currents, twirl to unheard music, and fade to nothing beneath the slightest touch.
By the time I followed Leo into the bedroom, fully intending to get over myself by fucking him senseless, he was—more fool me—already asleep. Considerately so, at least, on the far side of the bed, the covers spread over him lightly enough that I’d be able to slip beneath them without a tussle. For a second or two, indulgent and ashamed, I watched him. The curls of his damp hair. The rise and fall of his chest. The solid muscle of his shoulders. And this wasn’t behaviour likely to improve my mood.
Stretching over him, I drew down the blinds on the towpath side and then went to take care of the fire. It was only when I was closing the door, having built a neat pyramid of coal inside, that I realised I’d known what I was doing. That I must have been paying attention all along. But why? Unlike my mother I wasn’t interested in the pointless rudiments of narrowboat life. And I couldn’t foresee many future opportunities to show off my newfound ability to deal with a Morsø Squirrel Stove.
I limped back to the bedroom, shed my clothes, and crawledinto bed with Leo. He stirred and turned towards me—his eyes, perhaps, half opening, though it was hard to tell in the river-rippled gloom.
“Marius,” he murmured.
“That’s me,” I confirmed.
One of my hands came to rest upon the jut of his flank. Tentatively he moved his head closer to mine. And we lay there, mirrored, mingling breath and heat in the spaces between us.
