Chapter 2: The Mirror's Truth
The steam from the shower curled against the cool glass, erasing his reflection. Tommy stood bare, a towel hung low on his hips, water beading in the dark hair on his chest. The bathroom was warm, thick with humidity and the scent of Luke’s sandalwood soap. He could hear the distant clatter of mugs from the kitchen, the homey sound of Luke cleaning up.
He stared at the fog, at the vague, blurred shape of himself. His skin still hummed from Luke’s touch, from the familiar, earnest lovemaking that had felt, to Tommy, like watching a perfectly rehearsed play from the back row. He’d said all the right lines, made all the correct sounds. It had been nice. It was always nice.
The door clicked open behind him. A draft of cooler air slithered in.
“Forgot my toothbrush,” Luke said, his voice soft. Tommy watched his smudged form appear in the mirror, a warm, solid ghost moving behind his own. Luke’s hands, still slightly damp, slid around Tommy’s waist, fingers splaying across his stomach, tracing the lines of his ribs. He rested his chin on Tommy’s shoulder. Their eyes met in the glass, Luke’s clear and bright behind his lenses, Tommy’s dark and unreadable in the steam.
Luke pressed a soft, damp kiss to the curve of Tommy’s shoulder. A small, contented smile touched his lips, effortless and true. He looked so happy. So sure.
“You okay?” Luke murmured, his breath warm on Tommy’s neck. “You got quiet.”
Tommy watched his own face. Saw the muscles in his jaw tighten briefly before he manufactured a smile. It felt like pulling on a sweater that didn’t quite fit anymore. “Just zoning out. Long week.”
“Tell me about it.” Luke’s hands rubbed gentle circles on his skin. A comforting, possessive gesture. “We could just order in tomorrow. Watch that terrible space show you like. Do nothing.”
It was a perfect offer. A snapshot of the gentle, undemanding life Luke was building for them, piece by careful piece, like one of his ceramic bowls. Tommy felt the hollow ache behind his sternum expand. He opened his mouth. The words I need to go or I’m not sure or something’s wrong formed a lump in his throat. They dissolved into nothing.
He saw the reflection of his own mouth, slightly agape, say nothing at all.
Luke hummed against his skin, nuzzling closer. He was oblivious, wrapped in the simple satisfaction of holding him. Tommy hated himself for it. The shame was a cold, slick stone in his gut. Luke deserved devotion, not this silent, screaming vacancy.
“That sounds good,” Tommy heard himself say, his voice remarkably even. He reached up and covered Luke’s hand with his own, squeezing. A performance of reciprocation. “Yeah. Let’s do that.”
He thought of the man he was two years ago, meeting Luke at that cramped gallery opening. Tommy had been dazzling, all sharp jokes and easy charm, and Luke had been a quiet anchor in the corner, holding a chipped mug of wine. Tommy had wanted that anchor so badly. The stability. The unwavering admiration. He’d craved the quiet after so much noise.
Now, the quiet felt like a holding pattern.
“I’ll make popcorn,” Luke said, giving him one last squeeze before letting go to retrieve his toothbrush from the shelf. “The proper way, with the big pot and everything. A whole event.”
He was so earnest. Tommy’s heart cracked a little.
“You’re a romantic,” Tommy said, forcing a lighter tone, leaning back against the sink. He crossed his arms, a casual barrier.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Luke grinned, brushing his teeth. He caught Tommy’s eye in the mirror and winked, foam at the corner of his mouth.
Tommy laughed, a real one, surprised out of him by the silly, unguarded sight. For a second, it was easy again. For a second, he could believe the performance was real.
But the moment passed. Luke spat, rinsed, wiped his mouth. He kissed Tommy’s cheek on his way out. “Don’t be long. Bed’s cold.”
The door shut, leaving Tommy alone with the hum of the fan and his own clear reflection, now emerging from the evaporating steam. He looked tired. The kind eyes Luke loved seemed older. He leaned forward, palms on the cool porcelain of the sink, and stared.
He was going through the motions of a life he was supposed to want. A good life. A kind life with a kind man. The alternative was a yawning, terrifying unknown—a chasm of potential loneliness versus this gentle, certain companionship. It was enough. It had to be enough.
He turned off the light and walked back into the warm, dim studio. Luke was already in bed, the covers pulled up, his glasses folded neatly on the crate he used as a nightstand. The single throw pillow—the lumpy, off-green one Tommy had knitted in a fit of domestic aspiration—was propped against the headboard.
Tommy slid in beside him. Luke shifted immediately, curling against his back, an arm slung heavy over his waist. His breathing slowed within minutes.
Tommy lay awake, staring at the silhouette of a half-finished vase on a shelf. He listened to the soft, regular sound of Luke’s sleep. He felt the warm weight of the arm around him, a comfort that now felt like the gentlest of chains.
The hollow ache didn’t fade. It settled in, a new, familiar organ. He closed his eyes and pretended, until the gray light of dawn began to outline the windows, that the pretending was enough.