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Valentino watches as Vox paces around the room, talking on the phone about some fucked up numbers and contracts that Valentino can’t really be bothered with at that moment. His eyes follow Vox as he walks by the couch and then awa from it, but, when Vox notices it, he winks at Valentino.
No butterflies. No bells. Just an overwhelming unnamed feeling.
Whatever it is, it comes as desperation. It comes as a terrible urgency to have Vox in all the possible ways because this is his person and Valentino isn’t willing to let go. It’s an urge to devour, to possess.
A need.
For what?
Maybe that's what love is.
There is an awkwardness that seems intrinsic to those three little words and that makes them sit heavy like a lie on Valentino’s tongue as he watches Vox's back. But if this isn’t love, what could it possibly be? It must be love because it should be love because if it isn’t, then what the fuck is this thing that takes over his whole body when Vox is there? It sure as hell isn't just lust or whatever other horny desire Vox had ever made him feel. So, this must be what being in love feels like.
But he can’t tell.
And he can’t say it.
Valentino sighs and then throws his head back to be able to keep following Vox around the room as he starts walking again. He opens his mouth to force the words out. Maybe he could whisper them while Vox is distracted. Isn’t it how this sort of thing goes? Love and all those things he’s supposed to want and do because of it? Fifty years and counting, why can’t he say it? Why isn't he sure this is love? He tries to force the words out like vomit, but they get stuck in the back of his mouth, tasting bitter and causing an alarming sensation like they could actually choke him if he just lets them stay trapped where they are.
Valentino looks back at his drawing. There is something missing in it, but he can’t figure what was supposed to be there yet. He glances at Vox and then back at the drawing. Maybe there is no saving this. Maybe it is broken from the start, lacking something that Valentino can’t figure out to fix. He scowls at the image, frustrated by its lacking-ness.
“It isn’t half bad,” Vox comments, suddenly close and just standing right behind Valentino’s seat on the couch, and Valentino jumps a little. Vox laughs and walks around the couch to throw himself on the space next to Val while Valentino watches him like he is trying to figure out a very confusing puzzle. “What.”
Valentino shrugs.
“I don’t like it,” he says and Vox frowns a little, looking at him. “The drawing. There is something wrong with it and I can’t tell what it is.”
Vox reaches out with an open hand, asking for the tablet, and Valentino gives it to him. He watches as Vox takes the tablet and inspects the drawing for a long moment before handing it back to Valentino.
“It’s fine as it is.”
Valentino looks at it again, but it only upsets him more. He sighs again and sets the tablet down on the coffee table before dropping himself on Vox’s lap, resting his head on Vox’s thighs for a few seconds before turning to hide his face against his stomach.
“Are you sulking, baby?”
“Never,” Valentino says, face pressed against Vox’s stomach and voice muffled by his clothes.
Vox laughs and Valentino feels it as the laugh shakes through Vox’s body and a little through Valentino’s as well. He smiles, hidden on Vox’s shirt. His heart aches like Vox is squeezing it with his bare hands. This pain must be love, too, because what else could make sense of it?
The price for the safety and comfort of Vox’s presence is paid in full by the violence of Valentino’s mystery feelings. Through all the years of his existence, shouldn’t he have been in love at least once? He’s learning now how to feel in love, isn’t he? Step by step, and he isn’t sure how people can experience this sort of insanity and violence again and again, so casually, so easily, so neutrally. Because it is love, isn’t it, it has to be.
And so, he should admit to it. He should confess it: simply force the words out like puke on the clean carpet, in all their gross and repulsive nature.
Valentino’s stomach turns and turns. He rolls over on his back, head still resting on Vox’s thighs as he looks up at Vox and reaches up to touch his face with his fingertips.
Valentino is greedy, he knows it well. He wants Vox: he wants to touch him, he wants to fuck him, he wants to care for him and have his back. He wants long nights together. He wants to make sure he doesn’t kill himself over work. He wants to be touched and held, and he wants to hear his sweet promises and dirty words.
Because Vox is his to want in all those ways.
But, even so, if it is love, shouldn’t it be softer?
Easier? Kinder?
Shouldn’t it taste sweeter? Or does love just taste like blood and bile?
Maybe this urge is a lie. Maybe this need is just lust and Valentino is too caught up in it to tell. Maybe Vox is a really good kisser, an even better lay. Maybe the safety of his arms is just foreplay and aftercare. Maybe this is what it feels like to grow old.
And maybe Valentino isn’t meant to fall in love.
And maybe that’s why he can’t figure out what love is supposed to feel like.
And maybe that’s why he feels like a liar when he tries to say those words.
Because there is nothing to back those words. Nothing but the awkward shame of lying to someone he deeply cares about. Nothing but the plain evidence of his failure to head with Vox to that obvious destination.
Suddenly, Vox pokes his forehead and Valentino blinks, surprised by the way Vox forces himself through that spiral. Valentino frowns a little and looks at him.
“Shut up,” Vox says fondly and Valentino makes a face.
“I wasn’t even speaking.”
“So weird that I could hear all those squeaky brain noises then,” Vox teases him and Valentino pretends to slap his chest as he pouts. “Don’t sulk, sweetheart. I’ll make sure to distract you and get every single one of those pestering thoughts out of your pretty head.”
Valentino’s expression changes immediately. He wants that. He wants Vox, he is sure of that. He wants this. And maybe it isn’t love. Maybe it is fine like that. Maybe. Because he wants it and he isn't willing to let go. Maybe Vox won’t mind it too much. Maybe saying these things with his body is enough. Even if it may not be love.
Maybe.
Valentino moves his right upper hand down Vox’s chest, smiling a little.
“And how do you plan to do that, amorcito?”
Vox grins down at him.
“Oh, I’ll just fuck you stupid.”
Valentino grins back at Vox, excited and so down for it.
“Promise?” he asks, but no vocal answer is needed.
Maybe love confessions are overrated. Maybe Valentino is broken and maybe he doesn't really care because he gets to have what he wants anyway. Maybe it can be love even without confessions and weddings and the sugary romance. Maybe it doesn’t really matter because Vox kisses him like this could be his last kiss and he intends to make it count and Valentino meets him where he's at.