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For a moment, Black is afraid that White had tried to drive himself home anyway. He doesn’t think that his rival would be that irresponsible, but drunk people can be highly unpredictable. As he slowly pulls up in front of the hotel, he is relieved to find White leaning against a streetlamp outside. Despite his somewhat disheveled appearance, White looks positively heavenly underneath the golden spotlight. It’s a combination of his fair hair and white tux. It’s a good combination and White, of course, wears it extremely well.
Instead of getting out, Black honks his horn a couple times, earning some dirty looks from the valets on their smoke break. White looks up with a start and peers at Black, actually shading his eyes with his hand as though he is standing in front of the sun. Then he smiles goofily and ambles over to the car. Black leans over and opens the door from the inside. White drops into the passenger seat, slamming the door behind him.
“Hey, be careful!” Black says. “This isn’t one of your fancy White Faction cars. If you break anything, it comes out of my paycheck.”
White looks like he hasn’t heard a single word Black said. Rather than buckling himself in, he leans towards Black with a sloppy smile. He’s not just drunk. He’s absolutely hammered. “Hey there, sexy,” he says. “What’s a…beautiful man like you doing at a dump like this?”
Black just stares at him. “Holy shit. How much wine did you have?”
White frowns suddenly. “Oh, no! I forgot to snag a bottle! I’ll be right back.”
He starts fumbling with the door again, but his fingers keep slipping on the handle. Black doesn’t even bother waiting for White to buckle up before he pulls away from the curb. Sometimes you can’t afford to be safe. Especially when you’re parked out front of a building swarming with enemy spies and government officials. The last thing Black wants is to get caught and tortured for information. That will just put a damper on his night.
White falls back against the seat as Black drives away. He looks offended. “Hey, what gives? I had to go get a bottle of that wine I told you about!”
"You’re not going anywhere except straight to bed.”
“But I’m not tired.”
“White, you can barely stand.”
“I can stand just fine!”
"Not without the help of a streetlamp.”
They stop at a red light. The car is thrumming with an energy that Black can just almost perceive. White is like a magnet. Slowly but surely Black can feel himself being drawn closer and closer to the other man. He’s pure lightning and sunbeams. When he smiles, it’s like a wave swelling and cresting. If Black isn’t careful, he’ll drown.
Maybe he wants to. Drowning isn’t the most fun death—it’s all panicked flailing and burning lungs. But if he drowns in White…well, then, maybe he shouldn’t resist. Maybe he should let White pull him down into the depths, his arms wrapped around Black’s middle, humming a mystical siren song Black simply can’t resist no matter how hard he tries.
White finally manages to buckle himself in. He crosses his arm with a huff. “At least take me to a liquor store,” he says. “I think I remember what the wine was called. I can try and buy a bottle of it myself.”
"It’s almost curfew. The liquor stores will all be closing soon.”
“Not the ones I go to.”
Black shakes his head as the light finally turns green. He starts cruising down relatively empty streets. He isn’t going to rise to the occasion. Realizing this, White leans forward and snaps on the radio. He fiddles with the knob, shifting from station to station, until he finally lands on a David Bowie song they both know very well.
“Oh, I love this one!” White says. He throws back his head and starts singing along. In addition to being drunk, he’s completely and utterly tone-deaf. Poor thing. “Rebel, rebel! I love your dress! Rebel, rebel! Your face is a mess! Rebel, rebel! How could they know?”
“Hot tramp I love you so.”
White stops singing and glares at Black. “This isn’t a duet, you know.”
"Sorry,” Black says. He tries and fails to keep his cheeks from turning red. He remains silent the rest of the way home. Satisfied, White continues to sing to his audience of one. A true siren luring Black to the bottom of the ocean where anything and everything can happen away from the light.
White’s voice has all but given out by the time they finally reach Black’s current place. Like all Black Faction-assigned lodging, it’s a fairly modest and unassuming building. It’s not fancy or super-modern like anything those hoity-toity White Faction assholes have to offer. Instead, it’s a quaint brick building with rose bushes under the windows and a cobblestone path snaking up to the front door. The only indication that it’s an Embassy house is the mandatory black flag waving gently in the cold air.
Black gets out first and opens White’s door like a proper gentleman. He helps White unbuckle himself. White clambers out of the car and almost immediately falls over onto the slightly overgrown lawn. Black catches him just in time. The last thing he wants is White complaining about getting grass stains all over his tux.
White rights himself and gives Black a wobbly smile. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Much to his surprise, White wraps his arms around Black in a warm and clumsy embrace. He sways them gently side to side, humming the Bowie song, his head buried in the space where Black’s neck meets his shoulder. Black puts his hands on White’s back and holds him for a moment. White is totally drunker than he thought. If he were sober, White wouldn’t be acting so lovey-dovey in public. He’s a very proud man who keeps a part of himself locked up in a dark place where nobody can see. Nobody but Black, of course, and he isn’t always allowed to look.
“Wow, those cherries really got you good, huh?” Black says. His voice is calm and steady, but his heart is hammering a wild beat in his chest.
“It was such good wine,” White said. His breath is hot on Black’s neck. “You would have loved it.”
“Maybe, if you’re up to it, we can take a trip to one of your super fancy liquor stores tomorrow and find a bottle.”
“Maybe,” White says, but he sounds somewhat hesitant. Black is initially hurt but decides to let it go. There are a lot of things about himself that White has trouble facing when he’s stone cold sober. It only makes sense that he has trouble dealing with certain things even when he’s drunk on his feet.
Black takes White by the arm and gently steers him inside. The first thing they notice is the blinking red button on Black’s answering machine. He hasn’t gotten around to listening to White’s cavalcade of messages, but it was enough to make his machine run out of tape. He’ll listen to it tomorrow when he has the time and energy. Right now, he has to make sure White doesn’t accidentally kill himself. Even if they always come back, death is still a huge hassle.
Black isn’t sure if White can take the stairs in his state so he makes him sit down on the couch in the living room. He then goes around and turns on the lights. He may be immortal, but he’s also in his early forties and his eyes aren’t what they used to be when he was younger and full of piss and vinegar.
White blinks and rubs his eyes fitfully at the sudden onslaught of brightness. He looks less like a distinguished man of espionage and more like a child fighting his naptime. He shrugs off his jacket and pulls his bowtie loose. He impatiently shoves his hair out of his face but it just falls out of place again. White huffs in irritation and blows some wayward locks off of his forehead before they, of course, flop down again.
“This fucking hair,” he says. “I need to book an appointment and get it cut.”
“I like it at that length,” Black says. “It looks better longer.”
“You think so? My coworkers are always making fun of me for it.”
“Fuck them. Who cares what they think?”
White’s voice is quiet and almost embarrassed. “I do.”
Black sits down next to him on the couch. It’s old—the springs poke against their legs through the plaid fabric. But right now it’s the most comfortable place in the house because he’s sharing it with White. Black will sit down bare-assed on a flaming coal bed if it means just being close to White.
“White, you’re the greatest spy in your nation,” Black says. “You’re the greatest spy in the whole fucking world. Your coworkers just say those things because they’re jealous of you. They’re mad that they can never be as good as you in a million years.”
This seems to have done the trick because White smiles and leans into Black. He reaches up and takes Black’s face in his hands. He begins to gently massage Black’s cheeks. “You always know how to cheer me up,” he says.
“That’s because I know you so well,” Black says. “I know you better than anybody else in the whole world.”
“What else do you like about me?”
“Even though I inherently disagree with everything about your nation’s way of life, I love how hard you work to defend it,” Black says. “Whitespyland is extremely lucky to have you on their side.”
White smiles almost bashfully. “Oh, Black, I wish you could have gone with me to the gala,” he says. “We could have worn matching tuxedos and top hats. Everybody would have dropped dead at the sight of us because we were so beautiful.”
“You’re beautiful. I’m lucky if I get considered ruggedly handsome.”
White almost looks offended. “Don’t say that! I hate how down you are on yourself. I think you’re beautiful and that’s that. Whatever I think and say is gospel, you know. I have people eating out of the palm of my hand just looking for any crumbs.”
“If people listen to you so much, maybe you can convince your nation to stop their war efforts and sign a treaty,” Black says. “Then we can stop this stupid fighting and…and…” He falters, suddenly unsure of what to say. White is far more patriotic than him. That’s a given. His rival doesn’t just fight because it’s expected of him. He fights because he wants to. Because he loves his nation far too much to see it fall to anybody especially Blackspyland.
Sure enough White stiffens. He doesn’t let go of Black, but his hands grow limp. “Don’t talk about things like that,” White says. There’s a bit of a pleading edge to his voice. “You know how important this war is. Whitespyland can never give up. I can never give up.” He hesitates, a small smile playing on his lips. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t commit some light treason every now and then.”
Treason. The one thing White is so anxious to avoid. And now here he is actively considering it. Black’s heart skips a beat as White leans in and begins kissing his neck. He puts his hands on White’s back and lightly moves his fingers up and down as though he’s playing a xylophone.
“White…”
“Shh. Don’t talk. You’ll ruin the mood.”
White moves his head up and presses his mouth against Black’s. For a moment, Black just sits there and lets the other man kiss and fondle him. His head is spinning. White is rarely if ever this bold. Usually it’s Black who has to make the first move, who has to metaphorically penetrate White’s elaborate personal defense system. But now the tables have turned and he likes it. He likes being the one caught in a trap, left at his rival’s mercy. It’s a thrilling, exciting feeling.
White’s mouth tastes slightly like sour cherries. His movements are clumsy and slow. When he pulls away, his smile is loose and his eyes are glassy and bloodshot. The sight immediately jolts Black out of his stupor. White’s a lot drunker than he had initially realized. A feeling of discomfort gnaws at his stomach. As much as he desires White, as much as he wants White to desire him, he doesn’t want it like this. Not when White is blitzed out of his mind.
White leans in to kiss him again. This time, Black holds him back by the shoulders.
White looks confused and a bit hurt. “What’s wrong?” he asks. “I thought you liked me.”
“It’s not that I don’t like you,” Black says. “It’s just that you’re drunk.”
“I’m not that drunk!”
“White…I can’t kiss you. I can’t do anything with you. Not when you’re like this.” Black shakes his head. “It wouldn’t be right.”
“But I want you…”
“Only when you’re sober. I can’t have you when you’re clearly not in your right state of mind.”
Huffing, White throws himself against the couch, folding his arms across his chest. He looks dejected. “I can’t believe you just turned me down. You turned me down!”
"I’m allowed to have standards, you know.” Black puts his hand on White’s shoulder. “I love you, White. I love you too much to hurt you.”
“We hurt each other all the time.”
“Not like this. It’s different.” Black thinks for a moment. “Tell me this: would you try something with a lady who was too drunk to stand?”
White closes his eyes and shakes his head. “No. I wouldn’t.”
“Neither would I. And I wouldn’t try anything with you, either.”
“But it’s different for us. Our relationship...whatever you want to call it…we’re not like other people. Fuck, Black, we kill each other all the time. We’ve seen each other naked on more occasions than I can count.” White smiles a bit slyly and strokes a faded white scar on the back of Black’s hand. It’s a semi-circle, a tiny crescent moon stamped forever into his skin. “We’ve been branding each other for years.”
Black stands up abruptly, ignoring the hurt look on White’s face. “I’m going to get something to drink,” he says. “Do you want anything? And don’t say liquor! You’re cut off!”
White makes a face. “No, I’m good.”
“I’ll bring you a glass of water anyway.” Black turns on the TV and switches to the Charlie Chaplin marathon. Sure enough, they’re playing Modern Times, White’s favorite Chaplin film. It’s the famous scene where The Tramp is stuck in the machine he was working on. He rides the gears as though they’re amusement park roller coasters. White seems to forget his annoyance and watches the television raptly.
Once he’s in the kitchen, Black turns on the sink and splashes his face with cold water. He laps it out of his palms like a dog. Then he grips the counter tightly. He tries to steady his breathing. Fucking White. Why does he have to make things so difficult? Why is he only willing to let Black in when he’s drunk off his ass and not capable of making such huge decisions? Of course, it’s only when he’s drunk that he lets his true self come out to play. Drunk actions are sober thoughts, after all. Black closes his eyes and tries to block the images from his head. White with his hair all messed up and his shirt unbuttoned. White eating cherries slowly and languidly. Wrapping his tongue around them, sucking them off the stem, staring at Black the entire time—
Black slaps himself in the face once. Then he does it again. Then he does it a third time. That seems to have done the trick. The images of White being all sweet and sexy dissipate. His cheeks stinging slightly, Black fills a glass with tap water and adds some ice cubes despite the winter weather. He takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. Then he goes back out into the living room.
“White, I’ve got your—what’re you doing?”
White is no longer sulking on the couch. Instead, he’s by the TV, fiddling with the rabbit ears on top. “Your color is all weird,” he says. “It’s diluting the entire film.”
“What’re you talking about? It’s a black-and-white movie.” Black stops and chuckles a little. “Black-and-white. That’s funny, isn’t it?”
White doesn’t respond. He yanks the rabbit ears this way and that. Black comes closer and watches as the screen starts to fizzle and grow all staticky. Chaplin’s mustached face temporarily disappears into a snowstorm before coming back again.
“White, knock it off and sit down,” Black says. “You’re going to wreck it.”
“No, I almost got it. Hold on.”
White ducks behind the television set to mess with the wires. He’s still just as clumsy as he was when Black first picked him up. His shoulder jostles the set, causing it to wobble a bit on the stand.
“Hey, be careful,” Black says. “You’re going to knock it over.”
“No, I’m not. You’re lucky to have me, Black. Who else cares this much about your TV getting the most perfect picture?” White grins at Black over his shoulder. “When I’m done fixing this thing, you’ll feel like you’re watching movies in the theater. The picture will be that much clearer.”
“I appreciate the gesture, White, I really do. But it’s an old TV and I only really watch it when I don’t have any assignments. I don’t need—White, stop!”
White moves back behind the set to mess with the wires some more. He gives a yank and his elbow jabs the back of the set. Black feels like he’s watching everything in slow motion. The TV gives one final precarious wobble and falls screen-first onto the floor. There’s a loud crack that sounds like a gunshot. They both instinctively duck. White actually covers his face with his hands. Hearts pounding, both spies stare at the TV as though it’s a dead body.
White peers out between his fingers. “Oh, no! Black…your TV fell!”
“That’s because you knocked it over!”
White looks horrified. “Is it okay?”
Black goes over and picks up the TV. He sets it back on the stand. Right away he can tell that it’s damaged beyond repair. There’s a long crack in the middle of the screen. The image of Charlie Chaplin is gone, replaced by grainy gray static that looks like radioactive snow. Black switches the channel, but they’re all like that and he already knew it.
“White, you broke my fucking TV!”
“It was an accident!”
Black groans and rubs his face fitfully. “This is going to come out of my paycheck for sure.”
White stares at the television set, rubbing his hands together anxiously. His eyes start welling up with tears. “I’m sorry, Black. I didn’t mean to break it. I really didn’t. I’ll give you the money to buy a new one. I promise.”
“I don’t want your money! I just wanted to do a nice thing and make sure you didn’t kill yourself or somebody else. All I wanted to do was put you to bed so you could sleep this off and now look at what you did! You’re always making messes for me to clean up!”
White looks like a little kid being scolded. He sniffles loudly, trying to keep the inevitable tears at bay. But he’s too drunk and sad to do so. He starts crying loudly, big boo-hoo sobs that wrack his entire body. He actually falls to his knees, hands on his face, shoulders shaking. Black stares in shock, his anger immediately dissipating. He has never seen White get this upset before. It’s completely knocked the wind out of his sails.
"White…White, it’s okay…it’s just a crappy TV…I was thinking of getting a new one anyway.”
White shakes his head. “I ruin everything! I always do! I’m so sorry, Black, I didn’t mean to make you mad. Please…please don’t be mad at me anymore. I can’t take it.” He starts crying again, actually lowering his head to the floor so that the threadbare carpet can soak up his tears.
Black stares at him, dumbfounded. He can’t remember the last time White has gotten so upset over something. Sure, he has seen him cry, but not like this. Not like the world is ending. He comes over and kneels down next to White, carefully putting a hand on the other man’s shaking back. “Hey, come on, White,” he says. “It’ll be fine.”
White looks up at him like a dog expecting to get beat. “So you’re not mad at me?”
“No, I’m not.”
“But the TV…”
“It’s fine, White. It’s not the end of the world.”
“So you don’t hate me?”
Black shakes his head. “No, of course not. I don’t hate you, White. I can never hate you.”
Without warning, White throws his arms around Black and hugs him tight. He buries his wet face into Black’s neck. His shoulders tremble like he’s going to start crying all over again. “Oh, Black, I’m such a fuck up!”
“No, you’re not. Come on. Don’t say shit like that.”
“But it’s true! I fuck up all the time! Like the time I got blown up by my own safe! Or the time that I got tricked into tunneling into the White Embassy…and my clothes got all dirty…and security shot me because they thought I was you!”
“It’s so weird how people are always confusing us for each other when we look nothing alike,” Black says. He pulls back and gently wipes White’s tears away with his thumbs. “You’re so much more handsome than I am.”
White smiles tearfully and lets Black help him stand. Then he sees the TV on the ground and gets upset all over again. A fresh wave of tears slide down his damp cheeks. He starts wailing about being a fuck up. Sighing, Black brings White over to the couch and makes him sit down. White buries his face into Black’s shirt; almost immediately, the thin fabric is practically soaked. Black just massages the back of White’s head, kneading the silky locks between his fingers. This is going to be a long night.
Black finally convinces White that it’s time to go to bed. He makes White change into a pajama shirt and bottoms. Black changes, too, in the bathroom. When he finally reenters his bedroom, he finds White curled up in bed underneath the sheets. For a moment, he thinks that the other man has finally fallen asleep and moves to turn off the light.
“Can you keep the light on?”
Black sighs. “I won’t be able to sleep then. And I really want to get some sleep, White. I’m fucking exhausted.”
White clutches the comforter to his chest. He suddenly looks very small and vulnerable. “Sometimes I’m scared of the dark.”
“Really?” This is news to Black. He always thought that White was fearless, the kind of man to literally laugh in the face of danger.
“I have nightmares sometimes, but not when there’s a light on.”
Black chuckles. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me that you sleep with a nightlight on?”
White doesn’t laugh. In fact, he doesn’t look very amused. He looks like he’s ready to start crying again. He buries his face into his pillow. “Just forget it. Make fun of me like everybody else. I’m used to it.”
“Oh, come on,” Black says. “You know I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just having some fun. We can keep the light on. No problem.”
He comes over to grab a pillow. White finally looks up at him, a confused expression on his tired face. “What’re you doing?”
“Getting shit for the couch.”
“No, Black, you can’t sleep on the couch! It’s too uncomfortable.”
"White, I’m not sleeping in this bed with you.”
White bunches his hands up under the covers. “I won’t try anything again. I promise.”
“White…”
“I mean it, Black. You have my word as a spy.”
For a moment, Black considers leaving anyway. But the look on White’s face is so pitiful that it practically tugs at the heartstrings. Black gets into bed and wraps his arms around White, who instantly relaxes. The tension in his shoulders practically melts away.
“White…who makes fun of you?”
White shrugs. “My coworkers. They always call me names like pretty boy. Scaredy cat. Silver spoon.”
Black strokes White’s thin back. The silk pajama shirt practically dwarfs him. “They’re just jealous,” he says. “They’re jealous that you’re a better spy than the lot of them combined.”
"You think so?”
“I know so. They hate the fact that you’re the White Spy. You’re not just a regular, run-of-the-mill government employee. You’re practically the face of your nation. They can’t stand it so they try to bring you down to their level. And you can’t let them, White. You have to stand tall—well, as tall as you can—and tell them all to go fuck themselves. And if you can’t, I will.” Black smiles a bit. “I’ll blow up a White Embassy building or two just to prove my point.”
White turns around with some difficulty so that he and Black are practically nose to nose. Up close, Black can see the faded dark circles under his eyes, the gray hair already establishing residency at his temples. It’s clear that their immortality doesn’t stop them from aging. From growing gray hairs, dark circles, paunches and achy joints. Black shudders to think of what they might look like decades from now. If they’ll be old and worn out, walking sacks of wrinkles, still somehow alive and kicking. He decides not to share this thought with White, who’s already fragile and ready to break.
Instead he strokes White’s temples, trying to lull him to sleep. White’s eyelids flutter closed. His breathing becomes slower and steadier. Black starts carefully massaging the circles under White’s eyes. As he does so, he starts to softly sing the first song that comes to mind.
“Rebel, rebel. I love your dress. Rebel, rebel. Your face is a mess. Rebel, rebel. How could they know?” Black drops his voice to a whisper. “Hot tramp I love you so.”
White sighs slightly in his sleep and unconsciously moves closer. He seems much more relaxed now. Black continues to sing as he feels himself slip into slumber. He finds himself snuggling closer to White, burying his face in the other man’s shoulder. Black can still smell White’s cologne—Yves St. Laurent Kouros, his signature scent. It lingers on his skin like a kiss. It mixes with the stale cheap cologne and cigarette smoke that always clings to Black’s clothes, even his pajamas. It’s strange to smell it on White, of all people.
As he starts to fall asleep, Black manages to say one thing. The only thing. The most important thing. “I love you, White.”
He immediately feels like an idiot. Baring his soul to the man passed out next to him. As sleep descends upon him, however, Black is sure he hears White answer in a sleepy but sure voice.
“I love you, too, Black.”
It snowed overnight. When Black wakes up and goes downstairs, he sees that the whole world has been smothered in a thick, white blanket. Frost covers all the windows, giving them a light blue sheen. Black breathes on a windowpane while waiting for his coffee to heat up. He uses his finger to scratch out a simple message: B+W. He stares at it for a moment before using his palm to hastily wipe it away. Only teenagers do dopey stuff like this.
He takes his steaming mug of coffee into the living room, sits down on the old plaid couch, and instinctively snatches up the remote control. Only then does he remember that the TV is broken. Black groans and rolls his eyes. No TV and all the stores are likely closed due to the weather. He has no idea how to busy himself until White finally wakes up.
Then he remembers all the messages White left on his answering machine the previous night. Black gets up and stares at the blinking red button. He hits play and sits back down to listen. At first, the messages are normal—White bragging about the gala, the food, the people. The cherry wine he wanted Black to try so badly. Then he starts getting drunk and mopey. Black smiles at the whine in White’s voice as he complains. Typical White. Of course, he can find something to bitch about while at a gala full of important people.
And then Black gets to the message that he’s been unknowingly dying to hear all this time. White’s voice slurs at him from the past:
“God, you’re beautiful. You’re, like, the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen in my entire life. I really wish you could have been here with me. You could have been my plus one! Can you imagine the looks on my leaders’ faces if I showed up with you, of all people? Oh, my God! They would have laid an egg! A whole dozen eggs! Everybody would have snickered and talked shit about you, but I wouldn’t let them. I would have told them all to shut the fuck up. I would go to the ends of the earth for you, Black. I really would. I would make all your enemies die for their sins. I would fuck up anybody who even thinks about saying one mean word about you. You’re everything to me. Am I everything to you? Do you think about me the same way I think about you? Do you dream about me, Black? I dream about you all the time.”
“I do, too,” the real White says as he comes down the stairs. Black jumps up and looks at him. White stares back, his eyes still a bit red and tired. Thankfully he’s sobered up. He has the look and movements of a man who has regretfully drunk too much the night before and can’t remember why. “I dreamed about you last night. We went sledding.”
Black smiles. “Sounds like a nice dream. And it might turn real, too. Look at all the snow outside.”
White spares a brief glance outside before yawning. “I smell coffee.”
“I’ll pour you a cup.”
Black goes back to the kitchen and fills up his nicest mug with hot coffee. As he does so, he feels White’s arms snake around his middle. Black puts his hands on White's and leans back into him. “How’d you sleep?”
“Like a rock,” White says. “Your bed was almost as comfortable as mine.”
“I can’t wait to compare the two. Hey, are you hungry? I’m going to whip up some breakfast.”
White takes his coffee and sits down at the kitchen table. He wraps his hands around the steaming mug and breathes in the scent, getting his beaky nose as close to the dark liquid as he can without getting wet. “Sure, I can eat,” he says. “What did you have in mind?”
“Back of the fridge omelets.”
"Excuse me?”
Black grins and starts pulling out things that are about to expire. He places them on the table in front of White’s skeptical face. Black has sausages, asparagus, mushrooms, a single tomato, and plenty of mozzarella cheese. He makes a show of cutting everything up and then dumps them into a hot skillet along with several eggs and plenty of pepper. White leans back, looking subtly impressed.
“You could’ve been a line cook with knife skills like that,” he says. “Maybe if you ever retire, you can look into working for a restaurant.”
Black shakes his head as he cooks. “I can’t imagine ever retiring,” he says. “Even when I’m old and gray.”
“God, I just hate the thought.” White runs a hand through his hair almost self-consciously. Maybe he’s aware that he’s graying and is debating running to the salon for another round of dye. “I’d rather be dead than old.”
“That’ll never happen.”
White chuckles. “As long as you keep coming back, Black, so will I. Somebody needs to keep your measly ass in check.”
Black grins as he finishes cooking up the omelet. He attempts to cut it evenly in half with his spatula and decides to give the bigger piece to White. For a few moments, they eat in relative silence. The only sounds are their silverware clinking against plates and the wind howling outside.
Finally, White speaks. “That’s it, Black. If we ever retire—and that’s a big fucking if—we’re going to open up a restaurant together. You’ll cook and I’ll be front of the house. I’ll wine and dine the customers while you make meal after magnificent meal.”
“Oh, really? What would this grand restaurant be called?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t get that far. But it will be in a neutral zone—the countryside. We can serve fresh lemonade and blueberry milkshakes in the summer. And in the winter we can serve—”
“Let me guess. Wine made out of cherries that’ve been chilled in the snow of the Himalayas.” Black forks the last of his breakfast into his mouth and chases it down with his coffee. “I wish I had let you go back and filch a bottle. We’re gonna have a snow day today. We could’ve gotten nice and drunk in front of the fireplace.”
“I wasn’t planning on staying.”
“The snow says otherwise.”
“I’m surprised you’re talking about drinking. I know I annoyed you last night.”
Black waves a hand dismissively. “It’s okay,” he says. “I’ve acted like a drunk asshole before, too. It’s no big deal.”
"But your TV…”
“It’s just a TV, White. I can get another one.”
White looks a bit concerned as he gets up to put his plate in the sink. He looks out the window for a moment before he breathes all over it. Black gets up, too, and watches as White scribbles something with his fingertip.
W+B.
“Our restaurant will have a black and white striped awning like that one café we visited,” White says. “Remember? The one where you tried to poison me?”
Black grimaces. “How can I forget?”
“That fan ring was one of my greatest inventions.”
“Yeah, I was really impressed when I revived in that alleyway. Thanks for moving my body, by the way. I really enjoyed waking up next to a trashcan.”
White turns to him with a cheeky, teasing grin. “I bet that trashcan felt like a palace compared to this dump!”
Black playfully snarls and makes a grab for White, who gracefully twists out of his way. He runs into the living room, Black hot on his heels. He pounces on White and wrestles him to the floor in front of the broken television set.
White grins up at him, all starry-eyed and flushed cheeks. “Next gala I swear you’re coming with me,” he says. “We’ll wear matching tuxes. Maybe we’ll switch things up—you wear white and I’ll wear black. Vests made out of stars. A rose in your lapel and a jasmine in mine.”
Black smiles back down at him. “That sounds lovely, White.”
All of a sudden, he doesn’t care that the television set is broken, especially on today of all days. There’s another way to pass the time. A better way. There’s a warm, happy man underneath him and the hours stretching ahead of them. Everything suddenly feels possible. The restaurant, the gala—their future together. It feels like it’s within his grasp.
B+W.
W+B.
Has there ever been a more perfect combination?