perry’s smile is uncertain, as if it has appeared somewhere it was not invited, and his gaze is self-conscious. it wavers back and forth, from teacup to woods from woods to teacup. the easy simplicity with which wood agrees warms the space between them and when it embraces perry, he laughs again, but this time it is breathless, a melody of relief. he presses his lips together tightly and nods. some things are incommunicable through words and necessitate the visual: whether art or expression. this is a language in which they are both proficient; in which they have been proficient because there were years when their time together relied on being proficient.
when he lifts his eyes next, they settle on woods, still virile as he is elegant, but now without the need to reconcile these two facets. this makes him love him more than ever. he’s been mapping the changes, the way the silver of age has begun to wiser his look and somehow, impossibly, enhanced that tender warmth which encouraged perry nearer to him over a decade ago. he can remember that with perfect clarity – part visual, part visceral. now, in the aftermath of rupturing vices, woods’ confession is so tender and forgiving that perry’s brows pinch together as if preemptively damming tears. he borders on the apology that he has not yet found the language nor the right time for: “i haven’t –” surrendering to the fact that he is not yet there: “the raconteur. you’ve always been a great deal better with words,” he is thinking about the poems, folded in pockets as carried secrets, about the letters, cologne-spritzed and exchanged across the ocean, when work created such vast physical distances, only ever physical. ( he’s kept them handsomely bow-tied in a tidy stack, along with the intimate photo albums: trips, bedrooms. ) perry rubs his neck, and for the moment, says quietly, “thank you,” but the gaze he elopes with woods’ so loudly says, ‘i love you.’ he is beginning to remember their language.
there are patterns of perry’s design that no amount of counselling or ageing can subdue – hidden habits like the dramatic displays of emotion his brow performs, preluding spoken word with inherent code only a select few can read in fine detail. through the lapse of their contact over the months and the impetus of late schooling, woods had found himself disenchanted by writing about the characters of daily life: perry was daily life for so long. with the palace empty, he turned to his ramblings about perry to assemble a romantic illustration of the photographer, and for many weeks he suffered the painful longing of pygmalion filling pages with mentions of dancing brows, unbridled energy, and how perry so often wet dry lips with a tongue that still possessed its princeton charms. woods is taken aback by the sudden sting of tears in scratchy morning eyes, a force beyond his thoughts responding to perry’s ineluctable code by nature. his sincere expression is youthfully coloured with a vulnerability and the realisation that both men are looking reality in the face – but are too delicate to confront its rawness so early on. he understands before perry can defer in exchange for lighter words.
hearing “raconteur” satisfies an itch he didn’t realise he had, and obeying the law of his reputable modesty, woods looks down at his writer’s hands cozying up against his teacup and smiles silently at perry’s praise like it’s the first time he’s heard it. this is all forgotten under the weight of what perry’s thank you means to woods and he meets perry’s professing eyes ( there are moments of happiness from younger years creased in the corners. ) he senses this new incarnation of love feels indebted, wishing to atone for sins – when all woods wants is his counterpart within orbit again. the island between them suddenly feels like too much distance and taking his cup, he navigates around it. with no destination other than perry in mind, the tea is set down and woods becomes an enveloping presence of warmth and built firmness in a hug that whispers to perry he is loved in return. he measures in a breath and, relieved to find perry’s scent hasn’t changed, hums contently on his exhale. “i think you underestimated my ability to miss you.”
