The Old Astronomer

“You,” he says, feeling a bit lightheaded. “You love me.” The words are like birds taking flight. Each syllable tastes sweet in his mouth.

And there it is again, that smile. “Yes, I thought we had established that?” There’s humor in Chan’s tone, a teasing edge that makes him want to laugh or drop to his knees or smack him on the chest or all of the above.

Oh, but there’s a better option now.

He licks lips and pretends he doesn’t see Chan follow the movement with his eyes only to avert his gaze quickly right after. “No, actually,” he says, taking two slow steps forward. “I didn’t hear it well.”

Chan looks back at him, surprise flashing quickly across his features, right before he seems to notice how close they are standing now. He stills, all his focus landing on Big with the comforting weight of warmth embrace on a winter night.

Big takes one last step, until they are standing almost as close as they were while they danced.

Chan swallows, and it is such a novelty to see something akin to nervousness and uncertainty shine within his eyes. “Big, what—?”

He doesn’t let him finish the sentence. Instead, he leans forward, and kisses him.

It takes less than a second for Chan to melt against him. His hands come up to cup Big’s face in a gesture so tender and careful he feels his heart ache in response.

Chan lips part in a silent invitation and Big is drunk with the knowledge that this is something he’s allowed to do, that Chan wants him as much as he does, that they’re holding each other here and now and the pleased sigh coming from Chan’s throat is for him and him alone.

--

After dinner, they walk back along the shore at Chan's suggestion. Under a heavy moon, it's beautiful and calm and silvery across the dark waves. When Big impulsively slips his shoes off to walk down the beach, the sand is warm and soft under his feet.

And Chan, to Big's infinite surprise, joins him, silently pulling off his shoes and carrying them in one hand as they set off across the sand. The quiet of the night cocoons them within a delicate sense of safety, holding them together as they walk.

The thought strikes him. If Big was going to confess, this would be the place to do it—the warmth of the drinks at dinner still flowing through him, out here in the cool blue darkness, the sound of the waves a soft shhh in the background. No one could possibly interrupt them, or overhear him as he opened up his heart.

The desire to speak rises up his chest, heat rushing over his face.

I like you. I want this to be something. I want to be with you.

But he feels the words catch in his throat, dry and impossible to speak. He can't ruin this, this evening that has been so perfect otherwise. He can't fuck this up.

Chan walks steadily at his side, their shoulders bumping occasionally as they walk, unaware of his thoughts.

If Big were braver, he'd let their hands brush, see if Chan responds. See if Chan lets his fingers extend, warm and rough and achingly familiar, to catch Big's, to tangle their hands together.

But he's not brave. Not in this.

And Chan doesn't reach out, either. Doesn’t move closer than a polite distance, his gaze set out somewhere far on the horizon. Instead, they make their way back up the path, inches apart, each carefully held back from the other.

Big's heart aches in his chest, a wound at the center of him that won't close.

This is as close as they'll ever get, he thinks. And it'll be enough. It has to be.

Because Chan, like Kinn—like everyone Big has ever wanted—doesn’t want him back.

And he has to make his peace with that.

—