no idea where This fucking came from but have some sappy introspective notes app writing. It's trans bi rights:
He's half asleep and cooking breakfast when he gets the call. Swearing, he shoves the pan to a burner that isn't on and scrambles to pause the music on his phone and turn off the burner he was using and reach the fucking landline why before the machine gets it all at once. He doesn't even pay attention to the caller ID before he's swinging the phone out of its cradle.
"Hello?" he's asking, poised to slam the phone down if it's another robocall, before he's even caught his breath.
"Hey," she giggles on the other end, and his entire posture relaxes, and he turns, blinking in the light, to look out the window he knows faces her apartment, even if it's miles away and he can't even see her, like the needle of a compass pointing North.
"Hi," he responds, voice softening, a smile tugging his mouth as she laughs at him again.
"You always sound so beleaguered when I call the landline," she says, causing him to groan, turning back to his kitchen.
"You do it on purpose, you witch. What's up?" he asks. She hums on the other end, obviously stalling.
"So, I was thinking," she starts, but then trails off before laughing yet again, but it's more nervous this time.
"About?" he prompts, picking up the cradle to bring it to the counter by his rapidly cooling breakfast just to have something to do. Briefly the memory of some post saying you walk around while you're on the phone with someone is cuz you're subconsciously searching for them during the conversation plays across his mind, and he has to bite his lip to stifle a laugh.
"I was thinking," she starts again.
"You said," he interrupts, because he can't not, because he's a shit like that, because he knows it'll make her laugh again, which she does.
"I was thinking," she repeats emphatically, then waits pointedly for him to say anything else. He doesn't, so she continues, haltingly, and awkward in that way she is when she's trying to be sincere: "Since we're like, dating now, and all, I'd like to kiss you." A beat. "At some point."
And oh, if he wasn't in love with her before, he'd fall in love with her that very second. He leans against the counter, wrapping his free arm around the warmth blooming in his chest as a grin makes its home in his mouth, pressing the phone harder against his face like he could make her feel his simple joy at just talking to her down the phone line.
"At some point," he repeats, just because he can, he has to, and there's a puff of air against the receiver of a laugh that doesn't want to reveal it’s a laugh, but has to escape anyway. He imagines the dust motes in the sunlight swirling in front of her like they are for him now. It's beautiful.
"At some point, yeah," she agrees. He hums, and throws a quick glance at his interrupted breakfast–ruined now, probably–and his grin just grows even impossibly bigger.
"That's good to hear," he says, and she groans down the line at him, and he doesn't even have to try and imagine her, rolling her eyes with a fond smile and stamping her feet in an impatient little dance in his mind's eye.
"Yeah, I know that's good to hear, you dick, but do you wanna, like." She stops, voice suddenly faltering, and he can't help but feel a little bad about her insecurity.
"Yes, I wanna kiss you, too," he answers. She laughs, and he has to laugh, too, because this is a little ridiculous, calling someone before breakfast, before you've even gone on your official first date, giggling like schoolchildren, to let them know you want to kiss them. At some point.
"At some point," he says, laughter bubbling around the edges of his smile as she laughs at him again.
"At some point," she agrees. He thinks, inanely, of the subtle, striped bioluminescence of the human body, and hopes his is glowing a little bit brighter in his joy, even though he knows that isn't how it works.
"You wanna put it on Google calendar? 'Kissing Event starts in five minutes'?" he teases her, moving the pan into the sink. She hums consideringly, brightly, obvious putting on a show.
"No, I think I want this to be spontaneous. When it's right, yanno? Just wanted to put it out there, so it's not too much of a surprise." And he loves her, gods, he loves her, he really does, because he remembers breaking down in her bed three years ago as he tearfully confessed that he just didn't fucking Get it when people talked about sex and finding strangers attractive and casually hooking up with people they'd just met like that was normal, like that was a thing that happened outside of movies and music videos, and he knows, he knows, that despite the surface levity of this conversation, she really is only just putting the idea on the table, to see if he even wanted to be kissed, because she remembers it, too, of course she does, and if he hadn't known he's wanted to marry her since way back before she even told him her actual pronouns, he'd propose to her right there on the spot, over the phone, over his half-raw half-congealed eggs in his shitty kitchen, talking about first kisses on a fucking landline, like this wasn't the 21st century. He aches with it, but it's good. It's really good.
"It would've been a good surprise," he says.
"Yeah?" she says hopefully.
"Yeah," he confirms. "Just so we're clear."
"Yeah," she laughs, "just so we're clear. I'm not gonna tell you when, though. It's just gonna happen, right when you least expect it, and it's gonna be all awful and awkward and our noses are just gonna smash together and shit."
"Good reason to call as any, to say you wanna kiss me," he says, catching his breath.
"Can't wait," he promises, laughing down the line with her. “We can practice the finer points later, anyway.”
"Exactly. Anyway, that's all I wanted to call about–" and she interrupts herself with a burst of laughter, louder and longer than the others, as if the ridiculousness of this all has just hit her, or maybe the relief that they haven’t fucked up before they’ve even started, and he's laughing with her, too, and he's pretty sure he hasn't laughed this much before nine am since his last childhood sleepover.
"Yeah, s'pose so. I really do. Anyway, I have to get to class," she says, sounding apologetic but happy, so fucking happy, happy as he feels, so he can't even be too upset they have to stop talking for now.
"Kick their asses, babe," he says immediately, drawing a last laugh out of her.
"Yeah, I'll try. See you later?"
"Yeah, see you later. Love you." And isn’t that something, the way a phrase can change its meaning. They said their first “love yous” before they were even close to graduating, back when they still half-thought they were cousins, back when it just meant they were each other’s favorite people, and then it changed when she came out to him, to mean “I see you” and “I’m still here for you” and “we’re good”, and then it changed again, just a week ago, to mean “all of the above and more” and “there’s a future here between us and I want to take that chance.” Love rarely ever means just love, but that’s okay, because those other things mean love, too.
"Love you, too. Byeee–" and she hangs up before she's really finished saying it, drawing out the last syllable until the click because she knows it'd make him laugh. It does, one last time, and he sets the phone back in its cradle on its new home, the counter.
He takes a moment to stand over his sink, smiling like an idiot to himself, before reaching out to turn on the faucet to start soaking the pan, then turning to restart his music and grab a bowl for some cereal.
Yeah. It's a good morning.
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