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Unfortunately for Anton, Paul Baker tasted like Issa’s strawberry mango elf bar.
Anton’s stomach twisted, the flavour overwhelming his tastebuds as their friends' chorus of kiss, kiss, kiss faded out. Blood rushed through his ears. Paul Baker didn’t stop, didn’t even hesitate, kept kissing him.
Like, really kept kissing him.
Not as a bit this time.
Anton kissed him back, of course. Just for a second, he allowed himself to get drunk on his husband; on his lips, his nose, his perfect porn-stache that he should definitely never shave. Rough fingertips danced tenderly along Anton’s jaw, calloused from too many performances of “Wonderwall” and “Good Riddance.” No matter how often Anton professed to hate white men’s systemic abuse against acoustic guitars, Paul Baker was always the exception.
Maybe it wasn’t residual vape flavour. Maybe that was just what guilt tasted like.
Those callouses grazed Anton’s throat for barely a second, his pulse humiliatingly quick. In the end, that might have been what brought Paul Baker back to reality; Anton felt the exact moment when the spell was broken and his husband turned away, hand dropping to his chest to create distance where there had just been absolutely none. Anton pursed his lips while Paul Baker wiped at his own, clearing his throat awkwardly.
Destruction of evidence. Too little too late, given the three stunned witnesses sitting before them, but it was the thought that counted.
Anton couldn’t bring himself to look at Issa, but the small huh that escaped her lips sounded revelatory.
“Kiss, kiss!” Anton mocked dryly. “We kissed, we…” he paused. Nothing was funny. “We just kissed.”
The silence that follows confirmed what Anton was already thinking: he had to kill himself. Maybe a murder-suicide, to put Issa out of her misery. Perhaps a mariticide, to punish Paul Baker. The world was his oyster, really—
Samir spoke. “Should we watch a movie?”
“Yes!” Anton was on his feet and away from that temptress, Paul Baker, before the words were out of Samir’s mouth. “Yes, we need to watch a movie! Right now.”
Paul Baker’s halfhearted "let's do it" was less than convincing.
“Hundred-percent,” Anton affirmed, horrified to realize Paul Baker had inexplicably chosen to follow him towards the couch, the pair now regretfully seated at Issa’s feet like two little dogs. Her courtesans.
“‘Kay, someone throw out a movie,” Samir demanded. Good old Samir. I owe him one, Anton thought for a split-second before the entire house was plunged into darkness and he was reminded that Samir was as dependable as a lottery ticket.
It’s a shame he never got to hear what movie Issa was about to suggest, cut off by a shriek and Billie’s laughter as they all clambered to find candles and lighters, unwilling to waste their phones’ batteries on flashlights. As he stood, Anton felt a hand reach for him.
“Don’t,” he warned.
“Anton—”
“Stop it,” he hissed, batting away those calloused fingers. “Fuck off.”
Mercifully, Paul Baker did as he was told.
✩☆✩
The ceiling in Anton’s room was plastered with glow in the dark stars, leftover from Samir’s sisters. He always wanted some when he was a kid, but his dad worried they’d keep him up at night. Admittedly, as an adult, he had watched more than a few sunrises creep through his window, eyes glued to those small, artificial constellations. Tonight felt like one of those nights, an hour or so after everything calmed down and Anton could hear the indiscernible hum of Issa’s voice down the hall. He wasn’t sure who she could be confiding in. Usually it was him.
A knock on his bedroom door stole Anton’s attention, and he pretended not to care who might be on the other side as he opened it. Samir. The last time Anton had seen him look this grim was before Billie’s sinus inhaler intervention. Fuck. Dread knotted in Anton’s belly, knocking him flat on his back against the pink comforter. The ceiling stars twinkled mockingly at him.
Samir took a seat on the opposite bed. “Dude.”
“What?” Anton said indignantly.
“Dude,” Samir repeated gently. “You can’t just throw yourself a pity party and not acknowledge… that.”
“First of all, I can. I’m a hostess with the mostess and the ideal party guest.”
“Anton. Come on, man, what was that?”
“What was what?” Silence. Fine. “I don’t— I dunno.”
“Have you guys… done that before?”
“No. No!” Anton chewed his lip. “Mindwipe?”
Samir hesitated. Nodded. “Mindwipe.”
“When Paul Baker and I were taking Annabelle to the abortion clinic… something happened.”
“What, ‘something’ what? What’s ‘something’?”
“Stop freaking out, I’m telling you. He was asking me if he should shave his moustache, because that little barefoot-and-pregnant terrorist told him it looked pedophilic—”
“It’s a moustache,” Samir interrupted incredulously.
“That’s what I said, and then…” Hm. Anton ought to take a page out of Annabelle’s book here, actually. Abort, abort, abort. “And then nothing. That was it, we went home.”
Samir squinted. “That’s it?”
“Yup, the abortion was over and we went home. Y’know, I think Annabelle made me even more pro-life than I already was. It’s such a blessing to know her spawn isn’t out there making the world a worse place.”
Admitting that Anton had reached for Paul Baker first would be bad. Admitting that he had held his jaw between his thumb and forefinger and didn’t let go when he watched Paul Baker’s eyes glance down at his lips… that would be catastrophic.
“You called mindwipe,” Samir reminded him. “So… speak now or forever hold your peace, I guess.”
Anton sighed. It came out in an animated jumble. “I touched his face and told him he had a perfect moustache and he said okay, great, I’ll keep the ‘stache and then neither of us moved and he, like, definitely looked at me crazy and—”
“He said ‘I’ll keep the ‘stache?’”
“Yes, I just said that.”
“Fuck,” Samir groaned, head in his hands. “That’s like, the sluttiest thing a mustached man can say.”
“I know!” The vindication spilled out of Anton, probably a little too loudly. “I know, that’s what I thought, and for like half a second I thought maybe he was going to kiss me but then I thought I’m being ridiculous and then that witch was back in the car and I tried to forget about it.” He sighed, feeling a little better despite himself. “Anyways. Mindwipe.”
Samir dutifully mimed disposing of the memory. “Quite the dilemma you’ve found yourself in,” he said, sucking his teeth. “What’re you gonna do?”
“Me? Nothing. I love Iss, and I…” It was much too complicated to say he loved Paul Baker. Anton wasn’t even sure what that meant right now. “I mean, I obviously care about them both. I would never want to get in the middle of her relationship.”
“Besides the fact that her boyfriend is your husband.”
Anton groaned. “Besides that glaringly obvious way in which I am directly embroiled in their relationship, yes.”
“Got it,” Samir offered him a small smile and Anton laid an arm over his face melodramatically.
“Am I a totally horrible friend?”
There was an outright offensive pause. “To who?”
“Samir.”
“Sorry, I think you’re generally a very loyal friend… but maybe not to Issa recently.”
Anton knew it was the truth, but his stomach lurched regardless. “Right.”
“And… I don’t think that defines you as a bad friend, I just think… things are gonna be tricky moving forward and you’re gonna have to navigate that.”
“Right,” Anton exhaled deeply, some of the guilt exorcized from his system now that he had something actionable to cling to. Navigation. He could navigate.
“Dude. I killed that. Who even was that talking just now? Profound as fuck.”
“Mhm,” Anton laughed, just a little. “Thanks.”
“No problemo,” Samir grinned and stood. “Bet you’re, like, basically grateful your therapist killed himself now.”
Oh. “Well, that’s not—”
“Right, right, no, I got it,” Samir backpedalled, heading for the door. “I heard it as it was coming out, that was bad.”
Anton shook his head wryly. “Goodnight, Samir.”
“Night.”
The door clicked shut, followed by a quick knock. It was Samir.
“I’m so sorry I said that—”
“Go to bed, love,” Anton laughed, shutting the door as Samir continued his blabbering apologies. Laying back down on the bed, Anton only got a few moments of silence before there was yet another knock. “Fuck’s sake—”
Samir’s Tinder profile said he was five ten. Naturally, this meant he was really five seven, if he was wearing shoes which they obviously didn’t do in the house; all that is to say that when Anton swung open the door, he was expecting to look down at his friend’s apologetic face and was instead greeted by Paul Baker’s throat. Anton wanted to take a bite out of his Adam’s apple. Their eyes met.
“Oh?” Paul Baker sounded startled and looked exhausted. “Sorry, I—”
“No, fuck, I thought you were Samir.”
Paul Baker laughed a little and it took everything in Anton not to cause a scene and slam the door. Or, alternatively, drag him into the bedroom and pick up where they left off in the living room. The two of them stood there. Anton's brows knitted together, anger brewing in his chest. What did Paul Baker want?
"What do you want?”
✩☆✩
On the surface, it was a simple question. Paul Baker had been sent to Anton’s door per his girlfriend’s instructions, so it should have been easy enough to answer. Issa told me to talk to you. No. Issa asked me to talk to you. Sure. For whatever reason, though, the question scraped at him in a way that reminded him of the time he fell at the skatepark in the fifth grade. That was… what, fifteen years ago? He hadn’t thought about that in ages. He had no reason to. The scars on his knees were long gone.
What did Paul Baker want?
It was not a subject he usually gave much thought. Usually, his mind was consumed with what Issa wanted, what Ma wanted, what Billie, Samir, and Anton might want… and he was good at figuring that out. Usually.
Anton cocked an eyebrow and Paul Baker’s gut twisted.
“Hello? Ground control to Major Paul?”
Right.
“I want you and Issa to be happy,” he said obediently, dutifully. Nicely, even.
Annabelle had been right that day in the car, albeit uninformed; Paul Baker was nice. He was also charming and friendly and outgoing and kind and a little pathetic, but above all else he was nice and it left him with a perpetual stomach ache. Paul Baker was hungry. Paul Baker was starving for something he had never known how to ask for.
For a second, he could have sworn Anton tasted like something.
“No," Anton challenged. "That’s not true and it’s also not fair."
Paul Baker blinked. “Sorry?”
“Yeah, I’m sure you are. You’re such an angel, just looking out for your fellow American.”
This was not how he had imagined things going. Paul Baker’s brows furrowed and he opened his mouth to correct Anton, but—
“Your fellow North American, whatever. You don’t get to play the altruist card because if you actually gave a fuck about anyone’s happiness you would’ve married Samir,” Anton snapped, waving his hand dismissively. “You’re so obsessed with your own marketability as selfless that it swings back around and becomes selfish, Paul Baker. I’m not asking you what you want in relation to other people’s happiness because I know you’ll say you want us all to be a big, happy family, and we know that’s not possible,” Anton looked at him, maybe saw right through him. “Right?”
Paul Baker nodded dumbly, transfixed by his own reflection in Anton’s dark eyes, his silhouette lit by candlelight.
“In the deepest, most disgustingly inconsiderate crevices of your soul, what do you want?” Anton’s arms were crossed tightly over his crisp white dress shirt. Dumbly, Paul Baker noticed that another button had come undone since their encounter in the living room.
I want you is what Paul Baker tried to say, but the words felt sticky in his throat. It might have been for the best, then, that he took Anton’s face in his hands and kissed him, impulsively and greedily, rather than risk saying something that might not be all-the-way true. Or, worse, disgustingly and inconsiderately truer than anything else.
✩☆✩
Paul Baker didn’t taste like Issa’s strawberry mango elf bar anymore. He tasted like a gold medal and a victory lap as Anton allowed himself to be subdued by calloused fingers and that stupid fucking moustache.
It had been so long since Anton had properly kissed anyone that he had almost forgotten the sound of hands against stubble. The soft rasp of Paul Baker’s palms along his jawline melted the last of Anton’s righteous anger. Before he had time to regret anything, Anton wrapped his husband’s bolo tie tight around his hand and yanked him into the bedroom.
The door shut softly. One of Paul Baker’s hands slid along Anton’s cheek, grazed his ear, and slipped down to his throat. The other hand left Anton entirely, and he almost complained until he heard the door’s lock click into place.
The were both equally complicit, Anton realized then, both equally aware of how totally fucked this whole situation was, but just as willing, eager even, to continue. We’re too far gone, Anton told himself, There’s no going back now.
The excuse was sour on his tongue, and he allowed Paul Baker to kiss it away, to swallow it down hungrily as Anton gently guided them towards his bed.
✩☆✩
Issa’s bed is more comfortable. Entangled in a mess of sweaty limbs, Paul Baker couldn’t stop the thought from crossing his mind. Although, in Anton’s mattress’s defence, it certainly hadn’t been designed to hold two six-foot-something men and the weight of their inexcusable actions.
Anton's heart thudded steadily against Paul Baker's ear as he laid against his chest, enveloped in a heavy silence that made his skin crawl. Paul Baker opened his mouth to… to say what, exactly? Apologize, maybe? Dig himself a deeper hole, more likely. Down the hall, boisterously loud EDM leaked out from under the bathroom door, flooding the house. Issa was in the shower. The mental image of her came all too quickly and left reluctantly, and Paul Baker was reminded of how the band on the Titanic kept playing as the ship went down.
Wordlessly, Paul Baker rolled over to his other side, tugging Anton with him. He hadn’t fucked in a twin bed since college, and it took some trial and error before they were able to arrange themselves in a halfway comfortable position.Thwack. A light slap on Paul Baker’s tricep made him jolt, and he turned his head to see what hit him.
Anton peeled a small, faintly glowing star from his still-sticky skin and studied it intently. “This is fucked,” he said quietly. Paul Baker lips parted, and Anton shook his head, eyes locked on the ceiling. “Don’t.”
“You don’t know what I was gonna say.”
“I don’t want to. Whatever it is, it’s not fair to anybody,” Anton’s jaw was set.“Play nice.”
Right.
As per usual, Paul Baker did as he was told.