Love in 24 Frames

by C. S. Poe

  “I’m so sorry.”

  He waved off the comment, picked up his clipboard from the desk, and marked the final client as having left for the night. Shota tapped a security code into the panel on the wall, and then we both exited. He locked the door, pulled the woven security gate down, and tucked his hands into his pockets. “The pho was delicious.”

  “Good.”

  Shota leaned forward and nudged my shoulder with his. “What?”

  I considered explaining Noah’s hard-swallowed rejection. But the kid would probably be over it by tomorrow. His ego had been ever so gently bruised. And he clearly wasn’t interested in hooking up with Shota beyond anything physical. Noah wasn’t heartbroken.

  He wasn’t in love.

  “Nothing,” I answered. “You’re going home now?”

  “Yup. I share a house out in Bensonhurst with two roommates.”

  “That’s a bit of a trek.”

  “I know.” He checked his watch. “I’ll be in bed by one-ish.”

  “What time do you go into work?” I asked, frowning a little.

  “I used to go in at lunch. But one employee had a baby, and two have the flu. We’ve all been covering their shifts so they don’t lose their jobs. I’ve been leaving around six.”

  “That’s… a really long day.”

  Shota looked a little tired, now that I really had the opportunity to study his face. But he smiled and shrugged. “You do what needs to be done. I know I don’t live a very glamorous life, but it suits me. And pays the bills.”

  “But you spend so much time commuting.”

  “It’s not so bad,” Shota insisted. “Anyway. I’d better go. Longer wait time for trains this hour of night.”

  “Right. Of course.” I stepped to the side. “Have a good night.”

  “You too.” Shota rubbed my arm briefly before moving past me.

  “Sh-Shota?” I called after him.

  He stopped and turned on a heel.

  “You’re welcome to spend the night with me—at me. I mean, at my apartment!” I shook my head and took a breath. “I don’t live far from here. And I have a couch. If you—you know—”

  Shota started back toward me.

  “—you’re too tired to go back to Brooklyn,” I finished, my voice dropping to a whisper as he stopped in front of me.

  “Why would you make that offer?”

  I’ve been in love with you for half a year.

  I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

  Shota smiled.

  He didn’t take me up on my offer.

  But he touched under my chin, pushed my jaw up, and leaned in to kiss me.

  I ATE at Pho Palace every following day for lunch, like normal. I thought it would be weird to eat lunch at Shota’s café. I didn’t want to intrude on his places of business more than what was necessary. But I also wanted to let him know I cared and had loved how his eyes had lit up when I brought him dinner at the studio.

  So the next day, I brought Shota a bottle of wine, because I’d remembered a very brief conversation in September about how he was actually allergic to beer and drank wine or liquor exclusively. That and it seemed like a logical follow-up to dinner—a drink.

  And on the third day, I brought him a box of holiday cupcakes from City Cakes. I wasn’t sure what flavors Shota would like, though, so I got him the sampler package: peppermint, gingerbread, white chocolate, red velvet, and marshmallow.

  Coffee was the usual accompaniment to dessert, but since Shota worked in a coffee shop, it didn’t seem overly thoughtful. Generic, even. So on the fourth day, I brought a custom Christmas tea blend to the studio for him. Cranberry and hibiscus with notes of cinnamon, clove, and star anise.

  Of course, afterward it occurred to me that he might not have a tea infuser. And what good was a pile of loose-leaf tea without a way to steep it? That’s what I brought on the fifth day.

  “It’s the only one the store had,” I murmured to Shota as we stood outside of Wandering Artist after eleven o’clock that night.

  He removed a Nessie-shaped infuser from the bag. “Aww. Declan….”

  “I didn’t know—I mean, because of the tea yesterday.”

  Shota hugged the package against his chest and looked up at me. “I don’t have one.”

  Thank God.

  “I actually borrowed my roommate’s last night so I could try the tea.” He placed Nessie in the bag before pulling a hat out of his coat pocket and putting it on. “You really don’t have to keep buying me gifts.”

  I stared at Shota. Studied the little snowflakes that caught on his eyelashes. That melted on his cheeks. “I wanted to bring the dinner date to you.”

  “And you definitely did. I love that you thought of this. It’s sort of like the twelve days of Christmas.” Shota tapped his chin as he considered that statement. “I mean, with far fewer birds and musicians involved.”

  I reached for his hand, hesitantly took it, and rubbed his knuckles briefly. “To home, then?”

  Shota nodded. “Another early day,” he confirmed, his voice low. Wisps of cold air puffed around his face.

  “Stay with me,” I offered quickly. Shit. “I mean—no.”

  “No?”

  “Don’t feel obligated. It’s only because—”

  “You have that couch.”

  “So you can get more sleep,” I hastily continued, realizing I was now squeezing Shota’s hand quite hard and had to force myself to let go.

  “That sounds great.”

  I shook my head, running fingers through my graying hair. “It does sound—wait, what?”

  Shota looked on the verge of laughing. “If you’re really offering your couch….”

  “I am.”

  “I think I’d be interested tonight.”

  “For real?”

  “For real,” Shota confirmed. “I have to admit… I fell asleep at the desk at 9:00 p.m. And again at 10:00 p.m. Not sure I’ll make it home without accidentally riding the D all the way to Coney Island.”

  A tentative smile tugged at the side of my mouth. “That would suck. As my niece says.”

  Shota finally chuckled. Such an airy, light tone for a man who was undoubtedly exhausted after having worked the better part of fifteen hours a day for the last week. “It definitely would.”

  I stepped to the curb as oncoming traffic lit up the street. I held a hand out, flagged down a taxi, and then opened the back door for Shota. “I promise I’m not a creep.”

  “Does your niece say that too?”

  “She teaches me all the hip lingo.”

  Shota grinned.

  “No one says ‘hip’ anymore,” I stated, mostly to myself.

  Shota moved forward and slid into the back seat of the cab. I got in beside him, shut the door, and gave the driver my address. The city had lost most of its snow from the rain earlier in the week, but the current downfall seemed to be quickly reaccumulating on sidewalks and business awnings. Late-night pedestrians scurried across the streets, careful of puddles and nasty brown slush kicked up by cars and bikes. But the gloominess—dirtiness—was masked by the fresh blanket of white, lit-up trees lining the streets, and the occasional multiuse apartment balcony strung with blinking holiday lights.

  It was pretty.

  Spirity.

  The cabbie was listening to Nat King Cole’s “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.”

  And Shota pressed the side of his body against mine and tilted his head to rest on my shoulder.

  I’d never felt so whole in my life.

  “THIS IS it,” I said, holding the door open.

  Shota whistled, stepped inside, and pointed to the open curtains with the view overlooking the city from the twelfth floor. “Wow.” He shrugged out of his coat, tugged off his hat and scarf, and walked across the room to gaze out the massive windows. “The city sure is pretty from this high up.”

  I shut and locked the door before flipping on a light switch. “Do you want anything to eat?”
>
  “I’m fine,” he said, turning around.

  “A drink?”

  “You really don’t need to,” Shota insisted.

  I hung up my coat and walked into the kitchen. The layout of the apartment made this and the living room essentially the same, with only tile versus oak flooring to separate the two. “I’m going to have one.”

  Shota wandered back across the room, passing the threshold of the kitchen. “Then sure. If you have something other than beer.”

  I smiled to myself. “Whiskey, scotch…. I’ve also got an unopened bottle of pinot grigio.”

  “A finger of whiskey sounds good. Whoa.”

  I poked my head around the corner to see what had caught Shota’s attention. He was standing at what had once upon a time been my computer desk, but now was used as a puppet-making station. The drawers were overflowing with supplies: wires, fabrics, stuffing, and various paints and clays. The coffee table had long ago been dragged over to that corner and loaded with even more junk used for building set pieces.

  “Er—sorry about all of this,” I said, walking toward Shota quickly. “It’s just my, uh—”

  “Art stuff?”

  “Yeah.”

  Shota picked up a half-finished puppet. “This is really well made.” He glanced at me. “What do you use them for?”

  “Stop-motion films.”

  A smile lit up his tired face. “Really? Is that what you’ve been working on at the studio?”

  I nodded.

  “Huh.”

  “Let me take your coat,” I said, gently tugging it from between his arm and chest. I walked it to the coatrack and hung it beside mine.

  “Have you finished any films?” Shota asked, curiously testing the puppet’s posable joints before setting it aside.

  “Mm-hm. A lot.” I returned to the kitchen and poured us each a tumbler of whiskey. “It’s… for stress. I enjoy being a CPA, but it’s tedious,” I called.

  “I imagine stop-motion is equally tedious.”

  Joining Shota, I offered a glass. “In a different way. A good way.”

  “Tedious in a good way.” Shota clinked his tumbler against mine. “You’re an interesting guy, Declan.” He took a sip, made a sound of appreciation, and asked, “So can I see some of your movies?”

  “Th-they’re nothing worth watching.”

  “Sure they are.” Shota pointed at the crowded desk. “Look how much care you put into everything. And renting a studio for production?”

  “I needed room for a six-foot set.”

  He raised one of those thick, communicative eyebrows while taking another sip.

  I walked to the apartment door, collected the bag I’d set against the wall upon entering, and motioned for Shota to join me at the couch. We both sat, and he made a sound of surprise when the television flicked on to the yule log channel. Instrumental Christmas tunes wove into the snap and crackle of fire.

  Shota pulled a remote out from underneath himself. “Always turning things on with my butt.”

  I smiled wryly.

  He looked at me. “I just realized how that sounded.”

  I laughed a little, scooted closer, and opened my laptop. “They’re nothing special,” I said again as I pulled up a video.

  Shota crossed his long legs, leaned back against the cushions, and draped an arm across the back of the couch. “Stop talking like you need to ease me into the disappointment.”

  “I don’t want you thinking it’s Fantastic Mr. Fox or something.” I tapped a button.

  Shota’s fingers touched the back of my neck and slid into my hair as the short video played. I wasn’t paying the film any attention. I’d watched them all a million times over the years, trying to perfect my skills with puppet-building, camera angles, fluid motion—my God. Shota’s broad, blunt fingertips were dragging along my scalp. I shivered, and he began to massage my neck in response.

  My free hand sat in my lap. Doing nothing. The other gripped my tumbler so hard that I thought I’d crack the glass. But if I moved, Shota might stop. Might take his hand away. Might break the spell he was putting me under.

  I craved human contact. It’d been a long time since I’d had anything intimate, like Shota’s kisses. Anything gentle, like his caresses. But it wasn’t that I needed those physical acts of appreciation from just anyone because it’d been too long. I needed them from someone my heart tripped over in return.

  I needed them from Shota Watanabe.

  Shota leaned over the keyboard, clicked on another video, and a second film started playing. He sat back again, but not before taking my free hand, moving it to his own thigh, and then resuming his petting. My heart was hammering all the way up in my throat, but the silent confirmation that this was okay, that Shota was comfortable being with me—wanted that touch in return—it felt good.

  Really damn good.

  I lost track of the number of films Shota went through. My gut was warm with whiskey and my hand comfortably sandwiched between his legs. I was on cloud nine and didn’t come down until Shota spoke.

  “Those were beautiful.”

  I shook my head and looked at him. “Sorry?”

  “The movies.”

  “What about them?”

  Shota laughed. He took my empty glass, leaned over, and set them both on the floor beside the foot of the couch. He shut the laptop next, put it on his left side, then leaned in close. He kissed me, not exactly chaste, but no deep-probing tongue either.

  Just enough to taste the bite of alcohol.

  “You’re very talented,” he murmured as we broke apart. Shota touched his slender nose briefly to mine. “Don’t say you aren’t.”

  I swallowed and leaned in to catch his mouth in another kiss.

  “You should be entering these into film festivals,” he whispered.

  I smiled at that. “No. I’m not doing it for fame. Or even an audience.”

  Shota put his hand on the light bristle of my cheek and dragged his fingers purposefully along my jaw and chin. “Will you at least keep showing them to me?”

  I thought of my current project.

  Inspired by him—about him.

  “Okay,” I agreed.

  THE COUCH didn’t happen.

  I mean, that’d been the plan.

  I’d gone so far as to suggest Shota take my bed and I’d sleep on the couch.

  Because I didn’t want to make him feel—

  “Shh….” Shota had his back to me. He reached behind, groped around blindly before finding my hand, then tugged my arm over him, forcing me closer. “This is nice, isn’t it?” he whispered.

  I exhaled a long, slow breath against his neck. “Yes.” More than you know.

  The tungsten orange of the sleepless city peeked into the bedroom between the drawn curtains, casting a sliver of light across our bodies.

  “Your tattoos are beautiful,” Shota said. He drew fingers up and down my forearm.

  “Thank you.”

  “What made you get full sleeves?”

  I pressed the palm of my hand to his chest and breathed in rhythm to Shota’s heartbeats. “Expression,” I said at length. “Then I discovered stop-motion.”

  “And ran out of skin?”

  I stifled a laugh. “A bit, yeah.”

  Shota shifted onto his back and turned his head to stare at me in the near dark. “I’m really glad you came to WAS.”

  “Me too.”

  “And that you’re interested in me,” Shota continued.

  I brought my hand up and caressed his smooth face. “Piece of cake.” I’m in love with you.

  Shota grabbed the front of my ratty bedtime T-shirt and pulled me down into a kiss. He opened his mouth and lapped his tongue against mine. His hands roamed—touching biceps, shoulders, slipping underneath the cotton barrier to touch skin so sensitive that it pebbled as if I were standing naked in a blizzard.

  But that was it.

  Little kisses. Curious touches.

  Showing inter
est in each other.

  And sleeping more deeply and comfortably than I had in a long, long time.

  THE NEXT week went by in a blur.

  Christmas was now only three days away, and the city had the hustle and bustle of an impending holiday looming over eight million people’s collective heads—whether they celebrated or not. Because once the hurdle of Christmas was behind everyone, we still had New Year’s to contest with. I’d managed to get some shopping done for my niece, brother, and sister-in-law in between my day job and wrapping up my film at the studio.

  And stealing little moments with Shota.

  The poor man was worked to the bone.

  But he never complained.

  Shota did take me up three more times on sleeping over, and we did exactly that—sleep. The intimacy of lying curled up in bed with him, listening to his gentle breaths, memorizing the feel of Shota’s skin under my hand… that was far more rewarding to me than sex. Not that I wasn’t interested. And with Shota, I was certain it’d be incredible.

  We just didn’t need it then. Later, maybe. Probably. But not now.

  Sharing a comfortable silence in the dark made me feel full and complete. And I think… it might have been the same for Shota.

  “Please let me pay you back,” Shota said, elbows on the countertop of the reception desk.

  “No.”

  He leaned over and said, “You’re destined for sainthood at this rate.”

  “It’s only dinner.”

  Shota straightened and moved the bag in question. “No, it’s pasta. And an extremely thoughtful gesture that I really can’t keep accepting without—”

  “I don’t want you to pay me.” I studied the countertop for a minute, rubbing my thumb against an invisible stain.

  Tell him you sleep better when he’s at your side.

  That the first thing you think of when you wake up is him.

  And you work all day for the opportunity to see his smile at night.

  Tell him you love him and only want to take care of him.

  I was on the verge of saying something along those lines—that I was better off financially so it was no trouble to spend a little extra on someone I adored. But I knew if I tried putting that into words, it’d come out wrong. It’d come out as an insult I didn’t intend. Shota lived a decent life and did hard, honest work.