Platonic (17 page)

Mark nods, because while Daniel hasn’t mentioned it before, every fashion magazine in the last six months has.

“They want me to work with them on a bunch of things. On new lines and shows and it’s not just some shitty job, it’s a collaboration. I would be on equal footing with their top designers and it would get my name out there in a way that I expected would take me another decade. I still don’t know how I got it but it’s an insane opportunity.” He pauses. “I found out on Wednesday. I signed the lease on the store yesterday.”

Mark’s eyes are wide and he hasn’t quite managed to pull himself back together. His thoughts shift back and forth between the gorgeous, unexpected man still standing just inside his apartment, still holding orchids in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other and wearing a warm, tentative smile, to that same man leaving, again. And Mark can’t shake the feeling that this
is
a date… except for the bit where Daniel is leaving right afterward. “How long?”

He watches Daniel bite his bottom lip and his fingers itch to press against the soft redness there. His mouth goes dry when he realizes he wants to bite that place himself. It’s shocking but unmistakable, the way physical attraction is waking up inside him, intertwining with all the affection and friendship they’ve built up in half a year.

“It’s a six-month contract.”

They’re standing in the hallway of Mark’s small apartment and the front door is still open. Mark notices and pushes it slowly closed. “Six months?”

Daniel lets out a breath. “I’m hoping it’ll be more like a year. We could have a line out from this collaboration for Paris next spring.”

Mark pauses. He feels hurt and stupid to have manifested hope—even if it has been only in the last few moments—and to now feel it slipping away. This still feels like a date. “You probably didn’t need to blurt it out like that.”

“I just—”Mark waves it off, but not before he sees a flicker of shock and hurt on Daniel’s face and can tell that Daniel, just like him, didn’t think further than this moment, refused to acknowledge that this could ever be anything more than emails and texts.

Daniel seems to remember that he brought Mark orchids. He looks down at the bouquet in his hand and then back up at Mark, his brow creasing as he looks at them again and offers them up. “I brought you flowers,” he says stupidly.

“They’re beautiful,” Marks forces himself to say as he takes them. “And London is… whatever. It’s not important, right? We’re having dinner.” Then he blinks once, slowly, holds his breath for a second and then breathes deeply. He smiles and settles within himself, determined not to ruin anything for could-have-beens.

“Anyway, congratulations,” he says, and means it. “You should have told me we were celebrating. I would have bought champagne!”

Daniel laughs: it begins awkwardly but levels as he holds out the bottle of wine. Mark moves in and presses his mouth to Daniel’s cheek as he takes it. The air feels electric. His soft lips press and move across scratchy stubble for just a second and he can feel Daniel’s eyelashes brushing over his cheek and then he pulls back. It’s over far too soon.

Daniel follows Mark down the short hall and into the open-plan living space. Mark gives Daniel time to take in where he lives, the art on the walls, the throw pillows on the couch, the bookcases and lamps. Mark still hasn’t really had time to decorate the space as much as he would like. On Friday nights he often looks around and grumbles to himself about its lack of finesse and detail, and promises himself that he’ll spend time shopping over the weekend. It never happens, though, so his home is furnished more from necessity and random finds than from any real plan.

One corner of the kitchen is filled with mismatched appliances and over-stuffed storage spaces; there’s a practical counter with barstools and a huge dining table that he really never should have bought but that he loves nonetheless. The living room is lived-in, the couches deep blue and comfortable and arranged to take in light from the windows rather than the flatscreen screwed into the wall. The coffee table looks as though Mark has just swept a mountain of work from it, which is entirely accurate. He’s confident his bathroom is clean because it always is and he was smart enough to close the door to his rumpled bedroom before Daniel showed up.

“It smells delicious,” Daniel says, as he turns toward the kitchen where Mark is busying himself.

“Any excuse to cook,” Mark says, reaching for a cupboard to grab a vase. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Daniel watching him intently as he stretches for it. Mark settles the orchids in water and bends to peek in the oven. Dinner is cooking slowly but surely and it smells perfect. He smiles and when he turns back around he can tell that Daniel can smell it more strongly now, too; his chin is lifted and he sniffs the air appreciatively. Mark thinks tonight will be fine.

Daniel slips onto a stool across the kitchen counter, seemingly happy to watch Mark work. Eventually he says, “Cooking? Really?”

Mark flushes, remembering the half-dozen home-cooked disasters he’d served up as date-night meals when he was seventeen. “I’ve learned how, believe it or not.”

“It smells like it.” Daniel licks his lips and nods when Mark offers him wine from a bottle he pulls from the fridge. “When did you learn?”

They slip easily into conversation. They’ve had so much practice via email and they’ve always been able to talk about anything and everything; their interests and passions run close enough together for lots of crossover but far enough apart for intrigue. At least that seems not to have changed very much.

Except now they can see each other and there are obvious questions. Mark got his glasses almost as soon as he got to Stanford—too many hours of reading gave him headaches and a quick prescription. At first Daniel doesn’t mention his own glasses since he only started needing them last year and only when he sketches, but then Mark fiddles with his self-consciously and so Daniel confesses. Daniel comments on Mark’s hair, how short it is and still so thick, how much better it suits him than the frizz and wildness of untameable waves.

Mark laughs and tells Daniel he was early and that usually he would be even more put together. “Lawyer,” he says as he pulls a face, by way of explanation.

“When did you start cutting it so short?”

Mark thinks and then says, “Boyfriend—well, not a boyfriend—a friend at law school liked to lecture me about how unkempt it looked and was horrified when I told him I had it at four inches when I interned in New York the first time.”

“This was at the firm?”

“Yeah, he had no qualms about voicing his dislike for my hair on any and all occasions. Just before I came back to New York for the D.A.’s office internship the second summer, he dragged me to a proper barber and sat there and watched me get it cut into something professional. Got a full shave, too.”

Daniel interrupts him. “I like it short. It suits your face.”

Mark stares at him for an extra-long beat and cracks a smile. “I’m glad you like my face.” Daniel blushes and drops his gaze.

Mark continues, “What about you? How has your skin not aged a day in ten years?”

This is blatantly flirtatious and not quite what Mark meant to say, but it makes Daniel laugh. He sips his wine and rubs a hand over his chin. “Very good genetics and baby fat, I assure you.” He slides his hand up from his chin to rub at his still-round cheeks. “A bit of padding does wonders for wrinkles,” he admits.

Mark raises his eyebrows a little and pulls a face.

Daniel says, “And yes, I kind of forgot to shave.”

Mark laughs and shakes his head. “I didn’t say I minded.” He swallows thickly and turns his gaze back toward the stove because Daniel with stubble wasn’t something he’d thought about as a reality, just one particularly enticing aspect of yesterday’s—
yesterday’s!—
fantasy. “I don’t mind any of that.” He clears his throat. “Everything’s just so different, you’re a fashion designer—”

“And I still turn up at your house in jeans? You were expecting something different?” Daniel shifts slightly. His back is straight, as though he’s settled in his body, but his gaze dips again, showing that he’s not so sure of the conversation. Mark is still barefoot and dressed similarly to Daniel, if more brightly, in light blue jeans and a purple T-shirt. Daniel continues, “To be honest, I probably would have dressed up a little, but time just got away from me. And I’ll have you know these jeans are still expertly tailored.“

“I can tell.”

“I have to dress up so much for work now. Even though I’ve got this vibe going where I’m the casually dressed high-end designer, I still have to look the part on some level. So I really do fall back into old habits and wear the most comfortable things I own when I’m not in public. If that makes any sort of sense. Not that this is no effort at all, I just had to rush home from work and didn’t really have time to think so I just found something I knew I looked good in fast and…” He’s watching Mark with sharp eyes and trails off because Mark can’t quite stop the smile tugging at his lips from becoming obvious. “Sorry if it wasn’t the Daniel you were expecting.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all, though, and Mark’s smile just grows wider.

“You look good,” Mark says simply, and then diverts the conversation.

***

Swallowing the last mouthful of wine from his glass and laughing at Daniel’s story, Mark turns and checks the duck once more and then rubs his hands together, turning back to Daniel. “Ready for the first course?”

Daniel smiles. “There are courses?”

“Nothing special.” He knows the food will be good, but for a moment Mark puts on that air of self-deprecation—the flush to his cheeks, the small smile, the dipped gaze—that he always wore in high school. For that moment he feels ten years younger in spite of his shorter hair, the laugh lines around his eyes and the glasses.

Daniel grins at him and looks every bit the almost-thirty fashion icon that he (almost) is.

The first course is simple: pork rolls, tightly wrapped and sitting on two plates in the fridge, ready to go. They sit across from each other at Mark’s larger-than-necessary, dark oak dining table and there’s more wine and no cutlery.

“Fingers?” Daniel asks, sounding pleased with the idea. Mark nods and watches as Daniel dips a rice paper roll into the bowl of homemade sauce and takes a bite. Daniel is very aware of Mark’s eyes on him, waiting for a reaction.

Daniel moans around the mouthful. Once he’s swallowed, he starts to pick apart the rolled up mix of ingredients and dips his little finger in the sauce to taste again. “All from scratch?” he asks as he dips again. He’s a New Yorker with disposable income; he appreciates good food.

Mark nods. “It’s easier than you would think,” he says and takes a mouthful of his own.

The conversation flows again and Daniel has to stop himself from licking the little bowl of peanut sauce clean once he’s finished.

Mark tops off his wine and tells Daniel to stay where he is as he clears the plates and crosses to the kitchen.

He knows Daniel is watching him as he moves. The talk reaches a lull for the first time since they settled and Mark steals a glance back at him as he opens the oven door, watching for the moment the smell wafts out from the kitchen and hits him properly and savoring the way he licks his lips in response. It’s duck with ginger and pepper, and the aroma alone is amazing, Mark has to admit.

Daniel says so, and Mark chuckles. When he comes back his glasses are perched on the top of his head and the towel is over his arm again. He slides a plate in front of Daniel with a satisfied, “Voilà.”

It is
good
. It’s so good it makes them stop talking altogether once Daniel has made sure Mark knows he thinks it’s good. It’s rich and intoxicating, and the second bottle of wine is a heavier, drier white that melds well with the lemon and ginger of the duck and steamed vegetables.

Their eyes flicker up at each other, smiles are exchanged and soft music plays in the background that Mark put on sometime between the appetizer and the entrée. Daniel complains that he is getting full, sated, and slows down as he picks the meat from the bones with his fork. He says he wishes he could eat more.

Mark’s silverware clinks on his plate. When Daniel looks up, Mark holds his gaze and asks, “Why did you say yes to dinner if you knew you were leaving?”

Daniel swallows and his gaze drops. He doesn’t have a real answer. “I didn’t really realize it was a date.”

Watching him, Mark’s brow creases. And then he relaxes. “We never said it
was
a date.”

“It feels like one,” Daniel admits.

“It does.” Except dates lead to relationships and sex and love and happily ever after; they’ve tried that once before and it was devastating. “You brought me flowers and then told me you were going to London.”

“I know,” Daniel admits, his voice small and careful. It makes Mark’s heart ache. They flick back into normal conversation too easily, sipping their wine and watching each other and feeling far too happy about nothing in particular.

***

They sit at the table talking for another half hour to let their meals settle and because they’re enjoying the night. Mark isn’t sure what exactly will happen after dessert but he knows it will mean the end of this, whatever it is, and he isn’t ready for that. So they talk until Mark can’t wait to break out the cheesecake, proper New York cheesecake, and then he cuts them two generous slices and sets them on plates. Daniel asks if there’s more wine.

It occurs to Mark that they are about to start on their third bottle, and the alcohol might be contributing to the excited buzz in his blood; but when he checks the time he also realizes they’ve been talking for over three hours. There’s raspberry sauce in a jug in the fridge, and Daniel’s bottle of wine has chilled; Mark brings both to the table. Still, Daniel watches him from under his lashes.

“Cheesecake?” he asks.

“I remember a certain fondness for desserts,” Mark teases back and Daniel giggles.

“Did you make it?”

Mark slips into his seat and hums his pleasure around a mouthful before drowning his slice in bright red sauce. “No one makes their own cheesecake in New York, Daniel.”