Sorry for the wait
The insomnia hit me. Hard. And I don't want to get hit by a codfish.



There was a hallway. Thomas remembered that. A hallway and the two of them. And he remembered how Christian's fingers curled around the edges of his books and how he had shifted them to his other hand, brushing distractedly at the hair that had fallen across his face. Hold these for me? he had asked. And Thomas had been more than happy to comply. Anything to hide himself, hide the way he thought it must be obvious that he was staring at Christian. At the way Christian moved, turned, the way he methodically searched his pockets for his keys, the way his eyelashes fluttered as he struggled with the stubborn lock. But Christian gave no evidence to suggest the weight of Thomas' gaze and Thomas desperately read and re-read the titles of the books he held, and read until the words all swirled together and the letters made no sense and went careening over the volumes' spines.

And then the door was open. Thomas straightened, offered the books, but kept his eyes to carpeting. Even in the dim light, he could make out every stain, every imperfection. There was a watermark in the corner, where a leak from the roof had been allowed to go unchecked for far too long. Thomas studied it, noting the way it had spread, the pattern it had created, the-

Thomas remembered the watermark. Though not the names of the books. Or the sound that they made hitting the floor, as Christian kissed him.

* * * * * * * *

Thomas never remembered the kiss itself. Christian would often tell him about it, later, when there had been many more. Do you remember the first time, he would say. The time you dropped my books. I don't think I ever managed to get the bend out of my Herodotus. Really, you could have at least set them down first. Well, I do suppose I didn't give you much warning. And then he would sigh, as if Thomas' dropping of the books demonstrated the shortcomings of the entire human race. And then he would look at Thomas, with a typically Christian inclination of the head. Thomas always felt studied in those moments, like he had in the moment after the kiss, as soon as his senses had restored themselves. Christian would always look at him as if he were a book, some long-forgotten volume in an arcane language, something to be deciphered more than translated. And although Christian's gaze was curious, it was never unguarded. Thomas himself never dared to study Christian that way, not face-to-face, although he would meet Christian's eyes when he himself was so engaged. And then, as suddenly as the examination had begun, it would be over, and Christian would smile, slightly. Shall we see if we can't refresh your memory? he would say, hands already framing Thomas' face.

And Thomas would search through his memories, trying to sort through them, to capture that one moment.

And Thomas would fail, but he was perfectly content to abandon his search and live in the present.

Actually being kissed by Christian, he decided, was far better than remembering it.