Liner Notes #17: Terrible Twos
Today is Pi Day! It’s also World Sleep Day, graduation day for Japanese high schoolers, Purim, and, oh yeah, the second anniversary of Bitter Medicine’s release.
Happy birthday, Bitter Medicine. You’re officially a toddler now. To celebrate, I will drop a fresh excerpt from the zero draft of THE BOOK OF TONY below! THE BOOK OF TONY has remained half a zero draft for years now because there’s been no real motivation to write it. I threw down 50,000 words—easiest 50k words I’ve ever written, honestly—and left it there. Maybe one day, if there’s enough pressure, I’ll fire it back up, but as of right now, it lives as a half-baked half draft on my computer.
Early-career authors are often told that the second book slump is real. Before I say anything else, confirmed: It’s real. The Memory Hunters is my second book, and it was the most difficult thing I’d ever written (I think K&V 2 will be the new most difficult thing, and then afterward, we’ll follow that up with the fated lovers or something). Now I have a second book to my second book, since The Memory Hunters is the first part of a duology.
And, oh my God, the slog. I have a deadline. I am crawling toward it. My process is wrecked. I normally write a zero draft of about 50k words mostly to see how my characters tick. Then I chuck it and write a first draft of something that's entirely new. That’s not happening this time, and I am mildly freaking out that my brain is following the path I laid out in my synopsis to my editor two years ago.
I am not supposed to do that! I’m supposed to do a new thing! And here is where, I think, the musician damage comes into play, because in classical music, when you come back to a theme or repeat a motif or revisit anything, you never do it the same way twice. You don’t write the same exact composition twice and just swap out the keys. I’m having a lot of trouble reconciling my desire to do something unexpected and new with the fact that my real first draft of K&V 2 may not deviate how I want it to.
But, as I’ve learned and continue to learn, improvisation is not truly improvisation, and new things are not truly new. One way or another, the first draft of K&V will get done. Once it’s done, the tooth-pulling stage will be over and I can immediately launch into the editing stage, which is much, much more up my alley and more fulfilling for me (except for when I have to draft again).
I’m in the lull right before marketing and pub ramps up for the next book, which is, not gonna lie, a stress-inducing time to be in because the marketing plan is not solidified but the ARC is at NetGalley and Edelweiss and the cover has been revealed. This is when I wonder how much I should be talking about The Memory Hunters; this is when the anxiety hits really hard about whether or not I should be writing. Which is itself a different newsletter, because whew. And the overall situation of the United States is not helping! Thankfully, my marketing meeting is in a few days, so I should get some direction soon and be able to figure out how much energy I have left to devote to plugging a book during a time when nothing is certain and everything feels doomed.
Through it all, music remains my anchor. I’m composing for class. I’m preparing, hopefully, to be in Pittsburgh instead of Interlochen this summer. I’m singing every week and doing my best to file the rust off and believe my teacher when he says nice things about me. I’m playing for joy and preparing my students for competition season. I’m buying CDs again! I’m going to concerts! I’m pretty sure my husband is taking me to the They Might Be Giants show at the end of the month. I’ll be at yet another Hozier show during Worldcon because why the hell not. Oh yeah, I’ll be at Worldcon too. Hopefully I’ll see some of y’all there.
Here’s what I’ve been listening to:
Vulfpeck, Clarity of Cal. It feels like Vulf wanted to do homages and tributes on this album and I’m not mad about it. The last song, “This Is Not the Song I Wrote,” is very funny and the Michael McDonald impression is on point. I love musical humor; there’s a reason why I adore The Lonely Island, Victor Borge, anything on SNL that parodies pop music like Marty and Bobbi Mohan-Culp, and Tom Lehrer. Is Clarity of Cal a match for Thrill of the Arts or The Beautiful Game? Not sure. But it’s a solid Vulf album, and I for one am happy to see the guys back together again.
Aroof Aftab x Khruangbin, “Raat Ki Rani (remix)”. They pulled out their inner Enigma for this. I unironically love “Sadeness (part 1)” and laugh in delight every time I hear it.
https://youtu.be/f2qG0GOpwnI?si=eCbqTLp7w7xsUNuYL’arc~en~Ciel, REAL. This album was strong when it first came out and it remains strong. REAL is going to end up in the top three, I’m pretty sure.
Robyn, assorted songs. Because sometimes, you need an injection of late 90s and early 2000s pop. You need Robyn to tell you to break up with your girlfriend with every step you take. You need to tell ‘em to show you love, that you press trigger, you don’t press people button. Ten is for you so who gon’ get the next dozen?
MF Doom, assorted songs. Rap snitches, etc. Self-explanatory.
Doechii, Alligator Bites Never Heal, especially “Denial is a River.” Doechii has been working hard for a minute and I’m so thrilled she got her Tiny Desk moment, lots of shoutouts, and a banger of a song. And the wig tape!!!
Keep holding on and keep fighting. I’ll see you on the B-side. Incoming Tony.
Arun returns with two cups in hand, motioning for Tony to open the door. Tony reaches across the driver’s seat and pulls on the handle, shoving the door open enough for Arun to get a toe in and swing it the rest of the way. It’s a practiced motion, one Tony has seen hundreds of times. Before he’d decided to get into medicine, Arun had been a good footballer. Not professional level, but at a high enough skill to get into the small leagues.
“Here.” Arun hands one of the cups over.
“What’s this?” Tony slides it into the cup holder.
“Coffee for me, hot chocolate for you since you’re tired.” Arun sips cautiously before placing his own cup in the holder by the steering wheel. “We’re going to have that talk now.”
“Wait a second.” Tony scowls. “I did not consent to that.”
“This is not an issue of consent and you know it.” Arun cuts his eyes at Tony as he sticks the key in the ignition and cranks it to turn the engine over. “We have a lot to talk about, but since there are so many topics to choose from, I’ll let you start.”
“Oh, that’s a comfort,” Tony snarks, folding his arms across his chest.
“Let’s run with that one, yeah?” Arun backs out of the space and slips around other cars as he drives toward the exit of the gas station. He turns left, heading back to the ramp of the interstate. “You like to be comfortable.”
“I do, and I didn’t sign up for a lecture, so you can shut it.”
“That desire for comfort gets you into trouble. If you’d taken me up on my offer, I wouldn’t have had to nail you down in the car.”
“Better than nailing me, right?” Tony says reflexively. Then he closes his eyes, heat burning in his cheeks. “I take that back.”
Arun snorts. “Imagine that, your mouth getting you into trouble. Tony, look. I don’t know what’s between us other than a lot of history. I know you wanted there to be nothing. Obviously, there is something, because we’re both making mistakes and sending the wrong signals. So I have to know. What’s it going to be?”
There are a few people on earth who are immune to Tony’s charm offensive. One of them is his mother, and that’s because she herself is able to turn the ability on and therefore isn’t susceptible to Tony, the way a snake isn’t affected by its own venom. Another one is Luc, but that isn’t a natural immunity. More like an acquired immunity.
Arun has natural immunity. Sometimes, Tony wonders what Arun ever saw in him. Without the charm and the blitheness and the gay, underneath all the bluster and self-importance, there’s not much.
“Would it be so hard to tell the truth, for once?”
“Yes.” Tony takes off his sunglasses and rubs a hand over his face, sighing. It should count if he tells himself the truth, right? No one else has to know.
Arun depresses the accelerator, the g-force pushing Tony against his seat. “I’d like to know. But I also understand if you need a gesture of good faith. I would like there to be more between us. I was devastated after I found you’d died. I said words in anger, and I felt pushed to my limit, and I made a bloody mistake. I’m sorry about that.”
Tony keeps his mouth shut. He is not going to have feelings over this. Feelings are evil and he’d like to stay as far away from them as possible.
“I had a heart attack when I saw you the other day. And since then I’ve been wondering about the what-ifs. What if I hadn’t snapped and said what I said? What if I’d gone with you to Stella’s for her birthday dinner? How would things have changed?”
The feelings Tony is trying very hard to suppress are breaking through his defenses. Not good. There’s a faint stinging in his eyes.
“I’ve had lots of regrets. That’s one of mine. That I didn’t take a breath and walk away and try to reason with you, or talk to you, or something.”
“It wouldn’t have worked.” Tony puts his hands on his knees, his fingers tightening over the joints. “I wouldn’t have listened. Don’t beat yourself up over something that’s so far in the past. The situation with Stella—Elle, now—and Will and me, you wouldn’t have been able to change that.”
“I’m going to take that as a gesture of comfort and not a gesture of fatalism.”
“Take it however you want. I’m the only one who isn’t constantly mad or sad or depressed or guilty about it.” Tony shakes his head. “I dealt with enough from Elle. If you want to unload your feelings on me, go ahead, but I can’t promise I’m going to listen.”
“Never change, Tony.”
“Don’t intend to.”
“Since you’re so inured to it, why don’t you tell me what happened? Where have you been for twenty-five years? Humor me.”
“This whole exercise is humoring you,” Tony snaps. “Which I’ve been trying to avoid because I think the past should stay in the past. I don’t live there, and I never have. Build a house there all you like. I look forward. But you’ve trapped me in the car—”
“I take my opportunities where I can.”
“—and you think I’m going to happily capitulate to what you want?” The problem is, Tony wants to. He wants Arun to know just how fine he’s been without him. “You say I’m all about comfort, and that’s true, so I’ll tell you. The family drama came to a head. Will tried to take my laes, but Elle got to it. To prevent me from being controlled by him, she broke my laes. I almost died, it was a real near thing, but she saved my bacon.”
Tony watches Arun carefully. Arun keeps his eyes trained on the road, the muscles of his jaw standing in relief even under the beard. Tony keeps going. “We went into hiding. It was basically all my fault. I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to deal with the same shit I am dealing with now, twenty-five years later. This was what I was supposed to cure, and I didn’t, and I left my little brother in a place where he could never succeed. He thought the solution was to take my jade, and maybe the book would reveal its secrets to him.”
He motions vaguely in the direction of the trunk. “Yes, that book. The one I went home to get. Did you know that last year Elle got herself a backbone? She finally stood up to me. We had an argument about all this, and she was right. Because I was fucking around and having fun, and I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to leave my position at the agency. I didn’t want to go back to a place where I couldn’t see a path I set for myself. I didn’t want to leave you—”
The feelings finally catch him. Tony chokes on a sudden swell of emotion, his throat thickening, unable to keep talking.
Arun doesn’t say a word. Headlights from oncoming traffic glitter in his eyes.
“But then you made the decision for me,” Tony finishes, his voice cracking. Shit. Shit. Motherfucker, goddamn. “So here we are. I lost my magic. Elle and I packed up and moved to Vancouver as soon as we could. We stayed for about ten years before Will found us, because even though the jade was gone, I was still alive and firstborn. And barring that, Elle would be next in line. We ran to North Carolina.”
Tony sniffles, then closes his eyes and presses his fingers to his forehead, using them to tap the pressure points on his eyebrow ridges. This is why he doesn’t care for feelings. Now he’s sweaty and hot for all the wrong reasons, stuck in a car with his ex-boyfriend, pouring out the emotions he’s aged like wine in his chest. It’s a fine vintage, potent. “Elle got a job at the agency. Helped me get on my feet again. Made peace with myself. Decided that because I was impossible to live with, that no one would live with me. I got older. Then Will found us again. This time, he got me. Elle gave up her magic to save me.”
He shrugs, turning his palms up. “And here we are. Right back to the problem that started everything. Back here with you, of all people.”
“You have changed.” Arun swallows. “Have you ever considered,” he says, “that this isn’t punishment, but a second chance?”
Tony knuckles his eyes. If no tears fall, it doesn’t count as crying. Shénnóng have mercy on him, but his prayers have been answered. All those nights lying in a cold bed with the ghostly imprint of a lover left behind, wishing fervently for Arun to reappear, for mornings after with doodh cha and a Tottenham game on, for whoops and yells divided evenly with London-accented swears.
“I wanted closure,” Arun says softly. “And you’re right in that sometimes, we don’t get closure. I’ve spent twenty-five years shuttling between London and Atlanta. I’ve had some significant relationships. It’s easier now than it was back then.”
Tony musters a small smile. Twenty-five years ago, they had to beg, borrow, and steal any bit of happiness they could get.
“I haven’t had a partner in a while. I’m rather busy. But truly, no one has ever been as fun as you.” Arun’s gaze flicks up to the rearview mirror, and then he switches lanes, avoiding the motorcycle roaring up and past them.
“I know that’s right. Anything else? I’m running a compliment deficit.”
“What truly motivates you.” Arun shakes his head. “You’re fun. You’re more caring than you let on. You are devastatingly brilliant and quite possibly the best in the world at what you do.”
“Yes, keep going.” Tony’s heart is still raw and can’t be soothed, but his ego is easily placated. “Please talk about how good I look. You wouldn’t believe how well I aged.”
“You look amazing.” Arun turns his head to look at Tony and manages a grin, the effect semi-ruined by the tear track on his left cheek. “You’re as hot as you were back then.”
“Hotter,” Tony corrects him. “I had this trainer in Raleigh who was super into punishing me, and I have to say, it was worth it. My six-pack?” He puts his fingers to his mouth and kisses them.
Arun chuckles. “Are you planning to show me some real evidence?”
“I don’t know,” Tony admits. The weight on him has eased somewhat, but it isn’t gone completely. No matter how much he tries to convince himself of it, Tony’s different now. Older, wiser, and more cautious. He and Arun are sitting around the embers of a relationship, seeing shapes in the fitful smoke curling up from the ashes.
“I’ll take an ‘I don’t know’ over ‘never again,’” Arun admits. “Maybe after we get a handle on the control of this disease, we can go out for drinks. We can take it a day at a time until then.”
Tony exhales, then nods. The approach is a perfect fit for him. “Sounds good.”
“Drink your hot chocolate,” Arun urges him. “It’s getting cold.”
“Yes, Mother,” Tony says, mocking, plucking the cup from the holder.
“That’s Zaddy to you,” Arun returns.
Tony bursts into laughter and almost drops his hot chocolate.
***
“You’re kidding,” Arun says in disbelief as Tony looks on, half turned away, trying his level best not to laugh himself senseless. “There’s only one bed?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” the night manager says. She’s an older woman with her hair permed into eternal crispiness, dressed in shapeless knitwear that would pass for professional attire in a personal injury law firm. “It must have gotten entered into the system incorrectly when it was booked.”
Tony does his best Luc impression. Stern and hot, that’ll do it. “Did you book the room, Dr. Mukherjee?”
“No,” Arun replies right away, his voice rising. “Dr. Clavret did.”
Forget it. Tony loses it, collapsing into laughter. He didn’t have Dr. Clavret acting as a matchmaker on his bingo card for the year.
“I’m so sorry about my colleague’s rudeness,” Arun says, glaring at Tony. This is an old, familiar play for the two of them, having spent enough time flying under the radar in the past. “He must have mis-clicked. Are you sure the double is booked?”
“It’s spring in the Blue Ridge,” the woman explains. “We’ve been booked solid for weeks. The only room available is the one you booked—”
“My supervisor,” Arun interrupts her.
“—and I am so sorry, but we can’t change anything. All the hotels in the area have full occupancy. The Blue Ridge is popular for camping and hiking this time of year.”
“It’s fine,” Tony says, straightening. “I have a bad back, so I’ll take the bed, and Dr. Mukherjee can take the floor.”
There is no mistaking the flash of I-will-kill-you in Arun’s eyes. Excellent.
“Might there be a cot for my colleague?” The Londoner accent increases in Arun’s voice until it hits a degree reserved for actors who are trying too hard. “I couldn’t in good conscience ask him to sleep on the floor.”
“I can have a cot put in the room.” The manager looks from Tony, to Arun, then back to Tony. She’s probably wondering what to do with two Asians arguing in front of her after nine at night. At least she can’t call the manager.
“Thank you very much, ma’am.” Arun flashes her a winning smile, and she softens like putty in front of them. “I really appreciate your dedication.”
“If you can wait in the lobby, I’ll have the changes made.” She taps the keys of her computer. “Won’t be a minute. Will you need one key or two?”
“One,” Arun says, just as Tony says “two.”
“Two, then.”
The manager plucks up two keys from a pegboard in front of her and hands them to Arun. “You’ll be on the second floor. The suite is at the end of the hall with the dark wooden door. You can’t miss it. Breakfast is served at seven thirty sharp. I’ll let you know when the room is ready.”
“Thank you again,” Arun says.
Tony turns and places himself in one of the two aged wingbacks flanking an antique coffee table. It’s as uncomfortable as it is old. “You should have let me handle her,” he murmurs.
“And what, let you con her into bothering the other guests here?” Arun sits, then makes a face.
“What’s a little disturbance to have a bed to myself?” Tony laughs again at the absurdity of it all.
“Oh, knock it off,” Arun grumbles. “Dr. Clavret made an honest mistake.”
Tony throws his head back to hoot. “He didn’t, dumbass. He already knows. Why do you think he sent us here as the forward team when the field team will be arriving on our heels tomorrow afternoon?”
Arun stares at him, blinking. Lord, those eyelashes are sinful, as is the lushness of the beard Tony suddenly wants to touch very, very badly. When they’d been together, Arun had remained clean-shaven out of respect for Tony’s preferences, but he can’t deny how incredible and distinguished Arun looks with the beard. If there’s one thing that gets Tony to pay attention, it’s presence, and Arun has it.
“Because the patient is in an unknown timeline and may go critical soon?” Arun says.
“That too.” Tony can’t help the snort of laughter that comes out of his mouth. “I get being surprised. I was too. He can smell pheromones, okay? He knew the second the two of us were in a room together.”
“Bloody fucking hell,” Arun mutters, dropping his head into his hand.
“It’s true the patient might go critical, and it’s our job to protect the rest of the family. Maybe Dr. Clavret is secretly the fun type, though. Maybe he thinks we deserve a bit of levity during all of this.”
“Unethical.” Arun sets his jaw and stares hard at the front desk.
“You love it on the inside.” Tony grins. “Make that puss as sour as you want, Dr. Mukherjee. We’re stuck together.”
“Excuse me?” The night manager reappears. “Your room is ready.”
“Thank you again, and sorry for all the trouble,” Arun says, standing and hefting his luggage. Tony does the same, grasping the handles of his weekender and giving the night manager his patented charming smile. Maybe it’ll work the third time.
She beams at him. Inwardly, Tony cheers. He hasn’t lost his touch, after all.
“It was no trouble,” she replies. “Now, gentlemen, if there’s an emergency, my number is by the telephone. I’m off until the morning. Have a good night.”
“Good night,” Tony and Arun chorus.
They climb the carpeted stairs to the second floor. Tony takes it all in, looking around at a house caught in time, like an insect trapped in amber. “I wonder what sort of décor is in the room,” he murmurs to Arun as they pad down the hallway to the wooden door at the end, where there’s a seam of light stuck against the bottom. The night manager was right; they couldn’t miss it.
“I have no idea,” Arun says, fitting the key in the lock and turning it. He pushes the door open.
“Uh,” Tony says.
Grim-faced, Arun shuts the door behind him, sets his bag down, sticks his hands on his hips, and looks around.
There’s kitschy wallpaper in aqua and white all around the room, plus a four-poster bed with a ruffled sham that looks like it’s come directly out of an American Girl book. Beneath their feet is a dark blue carpet that once was thick but has had a trail worn into it from guest after guest. The air is slightly musty, likely from the air conditioning window unit.
A wardrobe occupies the area directly to their left. If the room weren’t so dominated by the bed, the wardrobe might appear as a regular size, but in the cramped quarters it gains a hulking presence, its mirrored doors reflecting the bed.
Tony quirks up the side of his mouth at the idea of it. Not tonight, probably, but he and Arun are no strangers to mirrors.
Were no strangers to mirrors. What is this present-tense nonsense? That’s wishful thinking. Tony looks at the cot at the other side of the bed, the foot of it peeking out shyly from behind lacy ruffles. “Rock paper scissors for the cot? Best two out of three wins the privilege.”
Arun rolls his eyes. “No one is sleeping in the cot.”
“Hey now,” Tony protests, even as he knows in his heart that Arun is right. Dr. Clavret has driven them, pun intended, to the inevitable. “It might prove more comfortable than the bed. I don’t think this place has changed in the last fifty years.”
“God forbid,” Arun replies, opening the door to the bathroom and flicking the light on. The bathroom fan awakens, complaining, and slowly whirs to life. “This place gives me the feeling that I’d need to haul my own hot water for the bath.”
“It is not that bad. Don’t be mean.” Tony joins Arun at the door, peering into a bathroom that can be best described as dated. Aside from the fresh, blindingly white fluffy towels stacked on the rack above the toilet and the neatly folded bathmat hanging over the lip of the tub, the bathroom is just as dated as the rest of the room. “What do you think? Maybe the hot water heater is weak and we’ll have to share a shower too.”
Arun snickers. “You can get ready for bed first, since you’ve had a long day.”
“I cannot believe this has been all one day.” From waking up in his apartment above Dr. Ma’s shop in the morning, to a taxing procedure on the last phase-one fae at the hospital, to a four-hour road trip with his ex, resulting in a cathartic—yes, cathartic—talk, to finding out there’s only one bed in the hotel room courtesy of an old werewolf who thinks Tony needs to rekindle the flame with Arun . . .
It’s a lot, to put it mildly. It’s kind of overwhelming.
“Go on with you,” Arun says gently, nudging him. “You need your rest.”
“I won’t be long.” Tony grabs his weekender and unzips it, pulling out a fresh set of underclothes and his favorite pair of pajama pants. There’s no pajama top, since Tony thinks shirts are overrated at home and would like every opportunity to look at the sculpted perfection of his torso. He works hard for it, so he ought to indulge.
Okay, he gets a helping hand from his god, but that doesn’t negate the fact that he has still worked for it. Hmph.
He also picks up his toothbrush, going into the bathroom to set his items down, then comes back out for the rest of his skincare. He isn’t at the ten-step Korean skincare regimen yet, and he isn’t convinced that’s the best use of his money and time, but it’s nice to have a routine at night.
“What’s all this?” Arun eyeballs Tony’s bulging toiletry bag, the contents of which are clinking and sloshing.
“Self-care,” Tony replies. “I guess I should have mentioned it, but my nighttime routine takes a while. Gotta put on the snail goo and all.”
“Snail goo?” Arun looks dubious.
“You’re right, I don’t use the snail goo. But the toners and lotions smell nice. The oil cleanser too, that’s pretty important.”
At least Arun’s familiar with that part. “Fine. I’ll wait.”
“Thank you!” Tony singsongs, then closes the door to the bathroom. He strips, admires himself briefly in the too-small mirror, and turns on the hot water after staring at the knobs in confusion for a good twenty seconds.
There’s something to be said about the satisfaction of a shower, the eroticism of steam and heat and water running over skin. Tony moans, pleasure cascading over him, unable for a minute to do anything but luxuriate in the feeling of hot water. Sure, sex is great, but have people considered hot water?
Tony reluctantly begins cleaning up, a little sad at the prospect of having an unlimited shower where he doesn’t have to pay for all the water. As he twirls the bar of soap in his hands, lathering up, he looks at his dick. It might be a good idea to preempt the situation and finish himself off. It’s like insurance. Up to half an hour of insurance.
Or, if Tony pushes his luck, and Arun is willing, he can leave himself alone and let Arun do it. It seems like the “I don’t know” he gave Arun earlier is becoming a “yes, definitely,” but Tony has no idea for how long. The reality is that Arun is in Atlanta, and he’s in San Francisco, likely relocating back to Shénnóngjia soon, and there is no way in heaven, earth, or the eighteen hells that his parents will give up their dream of marrying him off to an inoffensively pretty girl so he can knock her up at least twice.
At least twice. If there had been any action, Tony’s dick would have deflated.
Back to the present. Tony’s not going to deal with hypotheticals. What he has is Arun to himself for one night, and Arun seems like he would at least like to make out, and Tony is going to take the chance given him after twenty-five years to taste again the only man he’s ever loved.
Because he had. He’d loved Arun with a depth and breadth that had surprised him. He’d loved Arun with a tenaciousness that meant he would hold onto their relationship even if it meant losing part of himself. If not for what had been said, Tony would have fought for a shred of the bond they’d built. There would be nothing else like it again, and he’d known it.
Tony sighs, rinses off, and cuts the water. The shower curtain rings rattle on the rod as he yanks the curtain back and picks up a towel, drying himself off. He ties the towel around his waist as he finishes his skincare routine, examining his face in the mirror for any trace of a blemish.
That done, he brushes his teeth extra well. If Arun doesn’t make it happen, Tony will make it happen. He’s sure of it. He’s done this so many times with other people that he can read the current of attraction the same way a navigator reads the sky, or a helmsman the ocean. He knows.
Tony puts on his boxers and jammy bottoms and saunters out of the bathroom. Arun looks up from his tablet, then pauses. Tony feels the rake of Arun’s eyes from head to toe and halfway back, stopping somewhere on his torso.
He flexes the six-pack he’s so proud of. “It’s all yours,” he says, meaning the bathroom.
Arun stands, setting his tablet aside. “Is it?”
Tony grins. Arun’s reading into Tony’s words an intention that isn’t there. “Of course.”
Arun approaches, his dark eyes on Tony’s. He stops inches away, too far to kiss, too close for comfort. “I need to know, Tony. Yes or no. Are we doing this, or not?”
“One night.” Tony shakes his head to stop Arun from speaking. “One night is what we get. Tomorrow, we have a disease to fight. After tomorrow, I have a path that splits from yours in a direction you can’t follow. I won’t make you stay. So, one night.”
“One night.” Arun’s chest expands and contracts as he breathes. “I suppose that’s more than I thought I could have. Deal.”