Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,32
poem “The Good-Morrow” by John Donne and the importance of food microbiology to a healthy digestive system than the concept of Crash and I finally being together.
I’m not actually entirely sure I have fully grasped the concept that we’re together.
I place the empty pitcher beside Crash’s cup and command, “Up.”
Crash’s recently filled-in dark eyebrows pinch tightly together in confusion. “No.”
“Up.”
The repeating of the singular word only seems to increase his infuriation. “Fuck off. There’s an empty couch right there.”
A smile tickles the corner of my lips; however, I merely repeat myself a third time. “Up.”
“This is my DJ zone,” Crash explains, hand making a circle near his white shorts-covered lap. “This is my booth. You don’t just march into a club, walk behind the glass, and demand he or she abandons their post so you can play more Dojo Cat on the 1s and 2s.”
Okay.
My crew is right.
He does say weird shit.
My silent refusal to find somewhere else like he wants sends him spiraling further. “You think because you’re almost half a foot taller than me, you can just stomp in here, demand my shit, and I’ll just back roll over for you.”
His increase in volume and pitch indicates he’s only seconds away from surrendering.
“You think just because I’m wearing Lilly Lashes-”
“Great fucking brand,” Stratton loudly interjects.
“-and a beautiful, bright fucking striped shirt I won’t defend my shit?!”
In the same previously used tone, I state once more, “Up.”
“Fuck! Fine! Have the fucking chair!” Crash practically leaps out of the seat to allow me to sit.
He steps to the side, preparing to plop down where he was demanding I should, only to be caught around the waist and gingerly pulled into my lap.
His face flies over his shoulder to sheepishly state, “Oh.”
This time I let the bashful grin I had been holding back cross my lips. “Yeah.”
The small blush that colors his cheeks sends his face forward and hand soaring for his cup to hide the lingering shame.
I personally think those types of tantrums from him are cute.
Most of the time when they appear, they end with Crash realizing he’s overreacted and his gray eyes showcasing shades of insecurity I swear he doesn’t let anyone else see.
He does a phenomenal job of looking like he’s got his shit together; however, I love that I’m the person he chooses to let see what a mess his life really is. And those moments where he winds himself up like a discount Dollar Store toy, only to poorly explode into tiny sparkly shards are the ones I adore because he lets me help pick up the pieces.
He lets me help put him back together.
He helps provide me with purpose off the ice.
I don’t take that for granted.
I don’t take him for granted.
Crash adjusts himself to be more comfortable in my lap as my fingers stroke his back with ease.
Having him here, like this, is at the top of my list of our favorite shit together. Some people hold hands. Some people do the arm and arm shit. Gillette and Mo do piggyback rides. But this…this is what I like. His tiny frame perched on top of mine. His gorgeous face being flashed to the world while in arm’s reach, just in case he needs saving or me to help keep him sturdy. He fits here. His easy shift into this role in my life is that of stanza being altered by just a single line. One single line that somehow makes everything suddenly flow perfectly. When I pulled him into my lap at lunch yesterday, I just wanted to keep him close. I wasn’t anticipating that my entire life would suddenly feel so whole.
It doesn’t take long for Crash’s momentary humiliation to subside and him to return to the task he had mentioned earlier that I don’t think anyone else heard.
“Put the Lime in the Coconut” by Harry Nilsson begins to seep through the speakers provoking an initial unpleasant response from everyone. Groans and grumbles and disgust roll around the room for the first few lines; however, before we know it, we’re all mindlessly singing along to the classic tune. Silly dances ensue from every member of my crew as well as their significant others. Crash’s shoulder shimmies and minor ass shakes not only cause me to smile like a lunatic – they convince my cock we’re about to do some shit I know we’re not about to do.
One day we will.
I’m okay fucking waiting.
I’ve waited this long.
What’s a little longer in the bigger