Chain Reaction 3.1.92: Compromise

 

Dwight

     I've moved in with Pedro. It's was a crazy-easy move, too. The person moving in to my old flat bought my furniture, so the only things I took with me were my personal things like clothes, my laptop, television, and stuff.

     Since he's home more, Pedro's been putting his own touch on the place. 'Finally,' he says, 'it feels like home.' I like that. Thing is, he likes decorating with pictures... of himself. Wow, is he ever vain, but I have to say I certainly don't mind having pictures of him all around me. It only bugs me when he wants to put up a picture of me. We compromise by putting it in the most out-of-the-way spot.

     To make home feel more like a home, we adopted...

...

...

...

     ...a dog. 

     I wanted to adopt straight from the pound; Pedro wanted to buy one from a breeder. We decided on a compromise and went with a rescue organization.

     Our little girl. Pedro wanted to name her Lula, and I wanted to name her Belle. Then, we looked at each other and said simultaneously, "Lula Belle." She's a King Charles Spaniel, so that satisfied Pedro's want to have a purebred. She has some issues where things will absolutely terrify her, like storms. She hides under the bed and will not come out, not even to eat or go potty. We're slowly working on that with an animal psychologist. Imagine how I laughed my head off when I heard those actually existed, but I'm glad I listened to Pedro about it. When a storm comes, we dress her up in cute outfits. The tightness of the clothes helps relax her. Who knew?

 

     Most of the time, she's a sweet girl who loves cuddles. I'm glad because sometimes Pedro has to go on trips to exotic destinations for different photo shoots. I'd gotten used to having him around only for him to disappear for days at a time. Lula Belle helps keep me company.

     Tonight, his flight comes in at midnight. I plan to stay up even though I have work tomorrow, but while waiting for him, I pass out asleep. The slamming of the car door wakes me up, though. The driver just dropped him off.

     "Hey, sleepyhead," he tells me with a knowing grin. My hair probably gives me away.

     "How was Sulani?" He doesn't have to answer.

     "It was--"

     The rest of what he had to say gets muffled. F--k, I missed him. He was gone for five days this time. He's told me sometimes he could be gone for weeks. I'm not looking forward to that, but he insists those are the best gigs to get for his image.

      "You missed me?" he honestly questions like he didn't know.

      "Of course I did." How could he think otherwise?

      "Oh. I just thought that, well, since you only called me every other day that you were busy."

      "What? How could... No, I just didn't want to bother you while you were busy." What the plum?

      "Oh," he lets out like a cry and squeezes me to him. "Bother me. Next time, please bother me." He keeps squeezing. "I kept having to tell myself that you must've been busy. Otherwise, I'd start worrying you forgot about me."

      I thread my fingers into his hair. "Pedro, how in plum could I forget about you?" Ugh. And here I thought we'd tackled the insecurity issues.

     He takes a deep breath. "Okay." He pulls back, smiles, and the confidence returns.

Pedro Garcia

     Okay. Good. Dwight still thinks I'm hot. Because I am. Right? Yes. Of course I am. I mean, he said 'of course' when I asked if he missed me.

     I start telling him how Sulani went. After describing my luxurious hotel suite, I launch into the drama, the good stuff.

 

     "Spencer got fried on the first day! I knew that spray-on tan wouldn't work. He didn't put on enough sunscreen. They wanted him for his long blond locks and how they'd catch the sun, but it looks like the sun was more interested in scorching his skin!" I smile. "So they picked me instead." I smile again. Tell me I look good in the sun too. I wait. Nothing. Okay. Well, he IS really tired. 

 

      I continue, "And then there was this girl working with Luca. I think her name was Jennifer or Christy or something. I don't remember. Some girl name. Anyway, we're all sitting in the shade and the two of them are working when he somehow rolls over on the top strap to her bikini top. Neither of them noticed until she rolled over, and the thing came untied! It was hilarious! She was so mad, thinking he did it on purpose."

     "Poor girl." Of course, he would take the sympathetic route. But that's one of the things I love about him.

     "Oh, she was fine. Nobody cared." I think for a minute. "Well, Caleb might've... and Michael, but it was so funny how she blamed Luca.

     "Anyway, she ran off crying with Luca chasing her. Ohhhhh, the photographer was livid with them for that. I mean, what was Luca thinking?! There are only a few hours a day when the sun is at its best, and it seemed to be setting fast that day. So, the photographer went over to where we were and picked two more of us, namely ME, to finish it up. I don't know which set they'll wind up using, but I got picked." I smile again.

     He tries to smile back, but he's probably still sympathetic about the crying girl. "That's great."

     That's not what I needed to hear. He's trying. I know he's trying. But it would've been better if he'd said something like, 'Well, of course they picked you. You were the hottest guy out there.' Sigh. I'm working on him. He thinks I'm hot. I know from how he looks at me that he thinks I'm hot, but it would be nice to hear it occasionally. And I hate having to fish for the compliments. Everywhere I go, I get compliments, but the one person I need them from most only gives them to me if I drag them out of him.

     I suppose it doesn't matter. No, what matters is that I'm home, and the nerdy little sleepyhead in front of me makes it feel like home. Plum, he so adorable I could just gobble him up for breakfast. And the important thing: he chose me instead of the big bad wolf Marco.

     Oh, Marco has his good points too. He's so serious. Like way totally out there serious, and sometimes, I needed that. But when it comes to competition against me, he doesn't stand a chance. I know how to love Dwight: carefully. I could tell almost immediately that he was struggling with who he was. I can help and be a specimen so tempting it'll make his head spin. That's fun, actually.

     "C'mon, sleepyhead. Let's go to bed." I grab his hand because his eyes are drooping.

     "But I don't wanna go to sleep," he replies almost like a kid.

     "Who said anything about sleeping?"

     He breathes a sigh of relief. "Oh good."

     I see stars. It's true what they say about big feet. Plum, I have to hold onto the side of the f--king bed, fighting to keep from passing out it's so good. The guy's a natural. I've had to replace a few pillowcases because I've bitten holes into them. Maybe I should get one of those stick things to bite on like are in some first aid kits.

     We wear ourselves out and sleep wrapped around each other like some deranged pretzel.

 

     A few days later, after my workout and shower, I sit down to watch a movie. Lula Belle barks at the car on the screen. "Who's a good girl? You go, girl! Get that car, Libbie!" I thought dogs couldn't see or understand televisions, but our LB can.

     "Honey, I'm home," I hear behind me in an ironic voice.

      Gasp! I guess Lula Belle's barking made me miss the door. I fly over to him.

     "Welcome home." I lick his finger. "How was work?" I honestly don't know how he survives working nine to five. I'd whither up and die if I had to, but it seems to suit him.

     He sighs. "People, problems, and prescriptions. Don't make me relive it." He almost never wants to talk about work. But then he goes and says he loves it. I guess he's just tired. He needs to unwind.

     "Let's go to a club," I recommend and let him stand upright.

     "I'm not going to dance," he tells me, doing that look-over-the-rim-of-his-glasses thing.

     I pout adorably. He never wants to dance. He just goes and sits at the bar and gets tipsy/drunk off one drink. "You don't look ridiculous like you say you do."

     "No. You dance; I'll watch." He grins.

     I have to take 'em how I can get 'em. That basically means 'you are f--king hot when you dance.' Happy sigh. Still, I dramatically roll my eyes and grab his hand. "C'mon. Maybe with more than one drink in you, I can at least get you out for a slow song." Which they hardly play.

     A small smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, and I pull him out of the house to go have some fun.

     I do wind up getting him on the dance floor, but he's so stiff and self-conscious that it's almost boring.

     He definitely makes up for it when we get home, however. Maybe I do need to get a first aid kit.

     I pass out afterwards... and have nightmares.

Dwight

     After a pointless (other than watching him) trip to a club, Pedro and I come home and do what I wanted to do all along. I can't get enough of him. I think... I think I'm really serious about him. He has some issues, but who doesn't? And who better to handle them?

     I can't sleep (typical), so I get up and decide to read a book. Then Pedro distracts me.

     "No... Stop it, Hugh."

     A heated breath escapes me. I f--king hate Hugh now. Get control of the dream. Fight him! I try not to wake him immediately. I don't know what happened other than he cheated when Pedro thought they were serious, but that as*hole messed him up somehow.

     "DON'T!" he yells. I've had enough, and I wake him up. He cries quietly and clings to me.

     He always says he can't remember the details when I ask him about his occasional nightmares. So I just try to be supportive.

     Lula Belle whines. She must've heard him and thought that, even though it's the middle of the night, we're getting up, meaning it's time for breakfast.

     "Do you remember anything this time?"

     He sighs. "Other than he was laughing at me, no." He watches me. "He's not all bad, Dwight. He just hurt me. I've moved on." He kisses me again.

     Yeah right. But I don't contest it. Instead, I tell him to go write about it in the little document he set up. For saying so little to me, he sure does write a lot about what he doesn't remember. It's tempting to want to go and read it, but I never will.

     He's standing at the desk when I hear him ask, "Hey, how come you keep putting this bunny back in the middle here?"