#deuven

Word Count: 1,545

Content Warning: N/A

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“Two people who are true friends are like two bodies with one soul.” - Chaim Potok

David Malter’s favorite composer was Sergei Rachmaninoff. After his wife had died, he had bought a record of the Philadelphia Orchestra playing some of Rachmaninoff’s concertos. Over the next few weeks, he had worn out the record with how he played it almost all hours of the day. If he was conscious and at home, he was playing the record without fail. He was sure that if Reuven had been old enough to protest the repetition of the record, he would have with little fail. Yet, the music somehow calmed the shattered David. 

Rachamaninoff was also Reuven’s favorite composer. For his tenth birthday, David had brought home a Rachmaninoff record for his son. Instantly, the young boy absolutely adored it. Of course, it couldn’t replace his treasured toys and games. But, he immediately had a love for it. David, though somewhat naively, had promised to his son that he would one day take his son to see Rachmaninoff. He was just happy to see that this music that had comforted him at a dark time brought such joy to his son. 

Years later, that record that Reuven had adored as a child played in his head once more. The rise and fall of the notes in Vocalise, the gentle vibrato of the singer’s voice, the sudden crescendos and decrescendos. He could hear it in Danny’s voice as he explained some psychological theory that sounded so beautiful falling from his lips. When Danny spoke so excitedly about something new he had read. He heard it simply in watching Danny while he poured over his beloved textbooks, the way his chest rose and fell and the repetitive actions he would make like thumbing sat the corner of the page so tenderly as if it was the skin of a lover. 

Once, they had been standing together at the bathroom sink as they both got ready to go about their separate yet intertwined days. Reuven had been shaving, though somewhat carelessly rushing through the motions while Danny brushed his teeth. Occasionally, their eyes would meet in the mirror. Danny’s eyes were so clear. They looked like the lake that Reuven’s father would take him to as a kid, so still and almost unaffected by what was happening. He had bought their now terribly stained table cloth because the color, while somewhat off, reminded him of Danny's eyes when they first opened in the morning and were cast in that silvery haze of light. Reuven had been staring at Danny’s eyes when he nicked the soft skin on his jaw, the point where his jawbone made an angled line that connected to his ear. That’s when the pain registered and he finally looked away.

Danny let out a breath of a laugh before going to get a bandaid for Reuven, unsuccessfully hiding the smile that was desperately fighting its way onto his lips. If Reuven hadn’t been desperately snatched at the wax paper colored bandaid, he would have thought about how Danny’s lips were the color of a blush he had seen his father throw away once he was finally clearing out some of his mother’s belongings. Or the color of the dress of the only girl he had ever “dated” (his heart was never in it, he never could see anyone else in †he way he saw Danny) had worn on their last date. 

That evening, Reuven had trudged through the door after a long day of classes. His dark hair, which he had recently allowed to grow past his ears, was all in a mess and his glasses seemed to sit crooked on his face. Danny, sitting at his usual perch at the kitchen table, looked up so serenely. Only a couple months ago had Reuven realized how swan-like Danny looked when he raised his head from his books like that. Similarly, Danny had noticed the way that Reuven’s lips formed certain words during his morning prayers and the ways his fingers flexed as he tied his tefillin. Or how he would almost wipe his black and wire framed glasses (a suggestion from Danny when he had followed Reuven to the optometrist) up instead of carefully readjusting them. Once, he had looked up from his book while Reuven was seemingly smashing on the typewriter that had been a twentieth birthday present from the sister of his late mother. He had quietly watched for a few minutes in, simply taking in Reuven’s profile and the way his shoulders slumped. For the first time in possibly years, he had noticed a new permanent thing on Reuven’s body. Danny noticed a dark mole, just at that sharp angle where his jaw started to flow up and form an ear. 

It was the first time in a while where there had been something new and undiscovered about the other person. The last time had been a few months back, where their minds had slipped and neither had gotten groceries (though it was Reuven’s week to do so) and were absolutely starving. So, Reuven had suggested that they go to a food place just down the block that he and his father had frequented when he was a child. Without much of another option, Danny had somewhat hesitantly agreed. Eating out simply had never been a thing in Danny’s home, as Mama was always home to cook and his father had loyal followers that would willingly provide the Saunders with a meal if Mama had exhausted her recipes. Still, Reuven talked highly of the restaurant and Danny was sure that his partner would not mislead him for just a joke. 

When they had arrived at the restaurant, Reuven had ordered first, reciting it off by heart much like Danny would recite a passage of Freud. Out of fear of embarrassment, Danny had simply ordered the same thing as Reuven. When they were walking back to the apartment, Danny noted how Reuven carried the white styrofoam container with a flat palm and lithe fingers spread on the bottom and his other hand rounded about the tin Coca-Cola can on the flat top. Meanwhile, Danny tried to tuck his container under his arm and carry his tin can soda in the hand farthest from Reuven. Just so his hand could possibly brush against Reuven. And when they got to the apartment, Danny was the one to open the door and keep it opened for Reueven with his foot. Reuven seemingly breezed past him, a slight smile on his features. Then, he smoothed the slightly crumpled tablecloth, attempting to make things seem nicer than they really were.

As the two started to eat, Danny carefully watched his boyfriend from across the table, copying his actions. Still, he constantly wiped his fingers on his napkin instead of just letting the oil sit. He hated how the grease felt on his fingers, even if Reuven didn’t seem to mind it too terribly. After a minute or so, Reuven noticed Danny’s movements.

“You realize you’re eating it wrong, right?” Reuven suggested, a rare, teeth showing, smile crossing his lips. 

“How so?” Danny questioned, trying to keep a cool demeanor as though Reuven’s comment hadn’t bothered him. 

“Well, first off, it’s just a burger. It’s not like matzah or babke,” he said, taking a hand off of his burger to gesture at it as though he were presenting it to Danny for the first time. “Think of it like a latke. But a lot less holy.”

Danny screwed up his face a bit, almost upset by Reuven’s teasing critique. Reflexively, he went to mess with an ear curl that was no longer there. With little to say and his features soured, their meal continued in silence.

In a way to almost proven Reuven wrong, Danny quickly scarfed the burger down, his expression still sour. When he went to throw the white styrofoam container in the trash bin, Reuven gently placed his hand on the stormy boy’s arm.

“Can I have your pickles?” he asked, a mischievous smile crossing his face. Almost immediately, Danny’s sour mood melted away and he let out a breath of a laugh as Reuven took the container out of his hands to take out the pickle slices. Then, when Reuven was finished with it, he took it to throw it in the bin.

Danny then stretched out on the loveseat in their adjoining and rather miniscule living room, grabbing one of his books from the coffee table nearby. He was easily buried in his book, something that always brought a grin to Reuven’s face. He quickly finished up his own meal before going to the old phonograph that his father had given them as somewhat of a housewarming present. While he filed through the various records they had collected, mainly ones Reuven had brought with him when they started to rent the small Brooklyn apartment. Danny peeked at Reuven over his book, questioning what he could be doing. Eventually, he plucked out a Gershwin record and put it on.

“Wanna dance?” he asked, holding a hand out to Danny.

“I prefer Glenn Miller,” Danny said almost flippantly without looking up to meet Reuven’s glance.

favorite relationships: danny saunders & reuven malter