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Sometimes Nadja and Laszlo go hunting together, and sometimes Colin Robinson locks himself in his room, and the house gets quiet.
Sometimes Guillermo takes these days off, puts on some comfortable clothes and lays on the fancy room couch, mindlessly scrolling through his phone.
And sometimes Nandor moves through the books, taking one of the many old volumes he probably knows word for word, and he lifts Guillermo's legs, sits on the couch, letting them lay on top of him. And neither of them talk about it.
Neither of them talk about the way their bodies press together, too big of a couch for one person, too small for two. Neither of them talk about the way time passes slowly, how their breaths sinc, how the pieces fall into place.
Guillermo turns his phone in Nandor's direction, illuminating his face with the screen light.
“Horse.” Guillermo says.
Nandor turns his gaze to the phone. It shows a picture of a horse. He smiles. Turns back to his book.
“Horse.” He answers.
The night is warm. Or maybe Guillermo's body feels warm, Nandor thinks. His hair is getting longer, and he moves his hand to brush a curl behind Guillermo's ear.
He's getting sloppy , Nandor thinks, but he doesn't say it.
“You're beautiful.” It's what he says instead. And Guillermo smiles, and Nandor wants to say it a thousand times more.
The night is warm. And the night is warmer. And they don't need to say it, but they do, and the words dance around them, choke the air out of them.
I love you. I love you.
It's in the smell of the candles. The touch of a finger. The cup of tea on top of the table. The card he left inside his pocket. The cape draped across his shoulders. The cross hidden behind his shirt. The linger of a gaze. The hold of a hand.
It's not a crash, as much as it's melting. A collision is not always loud, messy. It can be soft. It can be gradual. It can be seamless.
Guillermo's hair melts into Nandor's, and his legs are above his, and his eyes are on his, and their breath mixes, and Nandor smiles, and he never wants to go, and he won't. He feels tangled and free.
I wrote bad poetry for you, Guillermo thinks, Nandor moves his hands over his thigh, hugs his waist, and maybe he said it, because he can feel Nandor's laugh, it vibrates through his body.
“I made bad art for you.”
I would burn the world for you. I would die for you. I will live for you.
The night is warm.
Sometimes, when the house gets quiet, Guillermo takes his day off, puts on some comfortable clothes, and lays on the fancy room couch, mindlessly scrolling through his phone. And, sometimes, Nandor joins him.