Page 33 of A Cure for Recovery

~*~

They only have one more planned stop before they head back to the hotel, so Tommy’s content to wander the aisles, occasionally scanning covers and reading blurbs, while Lawson browses with the speed and determination of a consummate bookworm. From aisle to aisle, topic to topic, tracing spine after spine with flickering fingertips. It’s cute as hell, and Tommy eventually finds an overstuffed ottoman to perch on near the science fiction section, where Lawson appears to have set up camp.

Forty-five minutes after entering the shop, Lawson comes to him, beaming, arms loaded with yellow-edged secondhand paperbacks. He found a complete set of Edgar Rice Burroughs’ John Carter of Mars books, with killer pulpy cover art from the seventies.

The proprietor loads them in a canvas tote printed with the shop’s logo while Tommy slides his credit card across the counter, and Lawson leans down to kiss him on the temple, right there in front of the cash register, the shop owner, and a little blue parakeet in a cage behind the counter.

The sidewalks are congested when they emerge, so Tommy unfolds his cane for the inevitable moment they’ll have to go single-file to avoid crashing into anyone. It feels lighter than usual; his temple is still warm and faintly tingling where Lawson kissed him.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” Lawson asks with an eyebrow waggle when Tommy tugs him into a liquor store. “To take advantage of me? ‘Cause I could get into that.”

Tommy sends him a mock-stern glare. “Pick out a wine you like.” For his own part, he grabs a bottle of his favorite overpriced whiskey, and a bottle of champagne, crossed necks clenched together in the fingers of his free hand.

When he finds Lawson debating two whites, one significantly cheaper than the other, he says, “Get the expensive one.”

Lawson’s mouth tucks sideways in a wry smile. Then his eyes widen when he spots the bottles Tommy’s carrying. “I was kidding before about the drunk thing.”

“Well, I’m not. Get the nice one. It’s our honeymoon.”

He says it because it’s true, but it has the added benefit of making Lawson flush happily. He gets the good wine, and, as they head for the register, Tommy snags a bag of plastic champagne flutes from a display on the endcap.

~*~

They didn’t book the honeymoon suite, but it’s still a nice room: wide king bed, floor-to-ceiling windows, marble and brushed brass fixtures in a bathroom that feels like a real bathroom: decadent and roomy, with a massive tub, as opposed to one of those narrow, economy rooms that remind you at every turn that you’re in a hotel.

When they get back in, the sun is setting lavishly through the skyscrapers beyond their window, liquid orange and glittering with eye-watering ferocity off every metallic surface across the span of city that separates their thirtieth-floor room from the river. Tommy’s drawn to the window; his breath fogs the glass as he stares out at the vista, the cars crawling below like ants, boats moving on the Hudson. He counts five rooftop gardens, one strung with fairy lights that snap on as he watches, tiny people gathering at a table and toasting one another with tiny glasses.

Even at his most miserable during their twenty years apart, he always found a kind of bittersweet comfort in the sheer busyness of the city. The knowledge that, even if he was pining and lonely, there were so many others out there, just beyond his window, living, and loving, and enjoying themselves.

Now, he gets to be one of their number.

He catches the ghost of his own smile in his reflection as he turns, and puts his back to the view, and focuses instead on the view that’s for him only.

Lawson’s sprawled on his side across the width of the bed, propped up on an elbow. He turned the TV on immediately, found a rerun ofThe Office, and then dug into his tote of new/old books. He’s idly paging through one of the paperbacks, smiling to himself with soft delight.

It's an innocent picture, and Tommy almost hates to dirty it up.

Almost.

He crosses to the marble-topped counter that hosts a hot plate, coffee pot, and an assortment of complimentary snacks and water bottles, and plucks the champagne from the bucket of ice they grabbed out in the hall. After years playing a mafia boss, he’s developed a particular talent for uncorking bottles without showering himself and the floor in champagne, and he pulls this one neatly; fills two of the plastic flutes from the liquor store and turns back toward the bed.

Lawson’s flopped over onto his back, book held overhead, properly reading now, and Tommy swallows an amused huff. He moves to stand at the foot of the bed, holding both flutes. Waits for a count of ten.

“Law.”

He rolls his head, spots Tommy, and then sits upright in a hurry. Chucks the book up onto the pillows. “Oh. Hey. Right now?” His hands grip the hem of his shirt and his face takes on an eager cast.

Tommy laughs. God, he loves this man. “Right nowwhat?” He puts a knee up onto the mattress and offers one of the champagne flutes. “I’m just handing you a drink.”

“Uh-huh.” Lawson takes his…and drains it all in one go like a shot.

“Dude!” Tommy laughs, and gets his other knee up onto the bed. “It’s not a race. You don’t win if you get drunk first.”

Lawson leans over to set the flute on the nightstand, and then reaches for Tommy; grabs him by the hips and hauls him up to kneel between his legs like he weighs nothing, a move that never fails to set Tommy’s stomach swooping. “Yeah, but the faster the I drink, the sooner I get to do this.” His hands slide down to Tommy’s thighs, and part them, and he rearranges him so he’s straddling Lawson’s lap.

Tommy braces his free hand on Lawson’s shoulder, which is honestly its favorite spot to be anyway, and closes his eyes, head tipped down for a kiss.

Lawson’s hand settles big and warm on the back of his neck, and goosebumps prickle across his skin, anticipation a pleasant shiver down his arms and legs. He doesn’t kiss him, though; rubs his nose against Tommy’s and murmurs, “Now, huh?” against his lips. He retreats when Tommy tries to bring their mouths together fully, and when Tommy slits his eyes open, he sees the mix of smugness and fondness in the curve of Lawson’s smile. “You don’t want to rest a little bit first?”

---