“It hasn’t bothered me so far,” he teases. Charlie can feel his face frozen in its pinched expression, the tension headache appearing above his brow. Dev’s voice softens. “Oh, hey, okay. You’re serious.”
Dev pushes up imaginary sleeves like he’s getting down to business, ready to follow Charlie’s spiraling thoughts down whatever paths they need to take. “In a hypothetical, imaginary, alternate timeline where we’re together, would I be upset by the fact that you’re sexually inexperienced and questioning?”
Dev is smiling. Laughing with Charlie, always.
“Hmm. I imagine in this hypothetical, imaginary, alternate timeline, we are living together?”
“That was fast.”
“Believe me, you would never step foot in my current apartment.”
“I absolutely do believe you.”
“So, we own a home in Venice Beach.”
“Well, that sounds expensive.”
“Well, you’re paying.”
“And a long commute to Palo Alto.”
“You’re working from home,” Dev retorts, raising his voice over Charlie’s logic. “So, we have this house, which probably always smells like disinfectant with bleach and oatmeal body wash. And you’d obviously have your own bathroom, because you need lots of space for all your primping.”
“And because you never clean the toothpaste out of the sink.”
“Oh, no. Never.” Dev shakes his head solemnly. Charlie laughs, but there’s also a lump of something gathering in the back of his throat. “And presumably, some Saturday nights, we stay home and puzz and watch space-themed shows full of hot men who don’t date each other. And some Saturday nights, we go out to restaurants where you secretly bring your own fork, and after, we come home and watch something about real housewives.”
Dev’s voice catches, and Charlie wonders if the joke of the hypothetical, imaginary, alternate timeline has clogged his throat a little, too. “And I think,” Dev says quietly, “if that were my life, then no, Charlie. I wouldn’t care that you’ve never had sex with anyone else, and I wouldn’t care if you weren’t sexually attracted to anyone else. It would be pretty wonderful, knowing you’d chosen me.”
Dev shakes out his arms again, shaking off that beautiful version of their lives they can never reach. But Charlie wants to reach it. He wants to reach and reach and keep reaching. He grabs Dev by the front of his T-shirt, gathers him onto his lap, and kisses him because he can’t help himself. Dev’s fingers in his hair, and Charlie’s arms around Dev’s waist, and the beautiful simplicity of kissing someone who always accepts him, who understands his brain, who doesn’t want to change him or put him in boxes, who only wants him to be more of himself.
Shit, he loves Dev. Fully. Stupidly. Maybe irrevocably. He thinks about the first night, about Dev’s arrogant little smirk. I know I can make you fall in love. Charlie laughs into Dev’s mouth at the memory. “What’s so funny?” Dev asks, poking him in the ribs.
Charlie shakes his head and kisses Dev’s throat until he’s jelly again in Charlie’s lap. “Can I show you something?”
Charlie climbs off the bed, and Dev does a little pout at his absence. He goes to his carry-on bag and pulls out the brown lunch sack Parisa gave him at the airport.
“What’s this?”
“It’s Parisa’s parting gift.”
Dev peels back the corner of the bag just a bit before he rolls over in hysterical laughter. “Condoms and lube! Parisa gave you fifty condoms and lube?” Dev pulls out three index cards. “Oh, and she drew you some pictures—sweet Jesus. Parisa has a rather graphic artistic style.”